Meditation on the State of the World

Poetry lovers (and poetic lovers), we haven't had a "Boot Camp" exercise in a while. So this is ole Drill Sergeant Redwave barkin' at ya. I've been out back playing with my privates, and man do I need a shot of Vitamin E!

A loose and flexible but important and versatile form is the Cowleyan, or Irregular, Ode. As the name suggests, it's a type of ode. Generally, an ode is any poem on an important topic, usually (but not always) with a serious, dignified tone. (However, a satirical mock-ode will probably have as silly and undignified a tone as possible.) The Cowleyan Ode is irregular, meaning you don't have to follow any particular form. It can be rhymed or unrhymed, formally metered or only a very loose rhythm. It should have some kind of form, but an ad hoc one you make up as you go along.

So here's your mission, should you choose to accept it: write a meditation on the state of the world. It can be political, religious, metaphorical-- whatever approach you want to take. Serious or light-heartedly satirical. It can be erotic or non-erotic. If it is erotic, the eroticism can range from mild and tame to raunchy.

I'll start it off with this untitled poem:



I'm a moderate, sensible imperialist

I don't wanna kill the natives

But if you do have to kill any,

I want you to do it quietly, behind my back

I wanna feel like I'm the good guy

Even though I know something doesn't sit right on my stomach

I don't wanna havta wade through too much gore before breakfast

I'm nostalgic about the old days

I wish we had Uncle Bill back

Even though I used to laugh at him back then

Things were calmer then, much more peaceful

Now things have gotten a little bit crazy

And it looks like they're gonna get crazier craziest still

I don't like it

I don't like it at all

Good gods, you've been a one-track pony lately, RED.

What's up with that?

Trick or track?

Isn't that one trick pony, Risia? Yeah, ever since 9/11, man, I've been like obsessed, man. Actually, I have written a little sensual poetry lately: one a bitter love poem, the other a steamy homoerotic fantasy. Didn't you catch them? I'm crushed!

Their titles are "Love's Demise" and "Shower of Sperm," BTW. I'll let you guess which is which.

Well, here's my go at it...... hope you enjoy



he walked with hat down, arms raised high
holding aloft his life, his soul, his indulgence.
a back hoe in one hand, held vertical, gripping
him like a machine pumps life into a vegetable,
an umbilical cord, all he knew wanting it back
with a Marlboro in the other hand and a green
lighter to set fire to the world, to find god down
that crowded street so alone. spat upon like this,
he walked down Santa Clara. none saw the
man, visible as he was, wanting the world to
give it all back! the dirt, the simplicity before,
now blind and ready to return with as much as
when he arrived. and I often wonder what it
would feel like to have a 50. Caliber rip through
my bodily organs, and ponder how that woman’s
tight ass would feel as she bends over the
counter the way she always does, to tread
the dangerous grounds of power and control, the
feeling of firing a revolver point blank at innocence.
at least he had something to lose.
I think I will mourn his loss.

Swirl of Images

Wow! I'm not sure what this means, but I like it. This is written in free verse, but it does have an ad hoc structure which holds it together. It's not totally formless at all. Organized into eight sentences of varying lengths, this poem evokes an overall picture of the world through a caleidoscope of images. I particularly like the lines:

. . . to tread
the dangerous grounds of power and control, the
feeling of firing a revolver point blank at innocence.

Notice how Smaugfire uses enjambment: i.e., the lines run on, smoothly flowing from one to the next, as with "the/ feeling", etc. above.

My one criticism of the mechanics of the poem is: shouldn't "50. Caliber" be ".50 Caliber"?

I appreciate the critique, REDWAVE. You're probably right about the .50 caliber spelling.


As far as meaning, the poem focuses on a man I saw when I was at work in downtown San Jose. You tend to see quite a few strange people in the downtwon area, and I've been working at this law firm for almost three years. Not a whole lot really gets to me, when I see crazies on the street. Except this one did. He had the look of terrible loss in his eyes, his clothes were dirty and he carried a back hoe in one hand and he held a cigarette and a lighter in the other. Just shuffling down the street aimlessly. For some reason I pictured a made man. Somebody who had climbed all the way to the top in this world, and abruptly came crashing down. All he wants is to die, but he's not quite sure how to even accomplish that anymore. In a way, I envy some of the things he had in life, but I ultimately take his fate as a warning.

Yes

I hear ya, Smaugfire. So many of us (especially now) live just one paycheck above homelessness.

Re: Trick or track?

REDWAVE said:

Isn't that one trick pony, Risia? Yeah, ever since 9/11, man, I've been like obsessed, man. Actually, I have written a little sensual poetry lately: one a bitter love poem, the other a steamy homoerotic fantasy. Didn't you catch them? I'm crushed!

Their titles are "Love's Demise" and "Shower of Sperm," BTW. I'll let you guess which is which.

Click to expand...

Ack, the dangers of mixed metaphor!

I hear you about 9/11. The conservative turn the country's taken is more than a little scary. In my own RL neck of the woods, I'm the one irritating people with What If?s and connections to the Third Reich. For what it's worth, I can see a good deal of what you've been saying on the political threads. I just think you tend to get locked into the role of provocateur, which tends to kill any potential for conversation. Personally, I'm for conversation before revolution every time. It's one of my biggest problems with Marxism, actually: even Marx was convinced that workers couldn't do it peacefully, nor for themselves. The Vanguard Party is just oppressive government in workers' clothing.

I'll make sure to check out your latest...I've been a little spotty in my reading lately. RL beckons with demands.

The silly revolutionary

Anyway, Risia, I don't much like vanguard parties either. Guarding a van is not my idea of a fun party. Now I was at a tailgate party not long ago, and it was a hoot.

I don't see how anyone can be against the idea of revolution. After all, the earth completes one revolution around the sun every year. If it didn't, it would fall in. And the moon is even more revolutionary, doing it every month!

One thing's for sure, I can expect plenty of support from big business. In their advertising, they're always talking about their "revolutionary" new products!

A bleak state of affairs. This poem wrote itself.
I wanted to add happiness and hope but it just didn't want to happen.

Searching the World for answers

They seek it here, they seek it there...

A wounded wild beast with survival instincts
Clinging to life with every painfully drawn breath
Chained by paw, paces morosely back and forth
Emaciated, dishevelled and the buzzards circle low
Animalistic mind driven by pain and need to be free

As the World turns another soul ascends to starry sky
Ripped from his body with a sharp knife; thrust deep
Dropping to the ground, where the innocent lies prone
Blood pools; spilt by a troubled teen's callous whim
The offender runs scared, to continue his journey in life


Across the deep blue ocean, on a far away lonely isle
A young widow weeps as she replaces her telephone
Her unborn child kicks out as it feels her sad distress
Stroking her belly as she weeps; unconsolable in loss
Another casualty in the fight of a belief; a bright future

On an cold Winters night, remembering the loss of many
A silently moving crowd gathers, brightly lit candles in hand
Young children, elderly people, teenagers, single and partnered
Hand in hand, a circle forms; joining all across the land, mourning
For a few moments all differences are forgotten, instead they unite


Trekking across many miles pilgrims seek the solace of thoughts
Their sandaled feet scuffing across the dusty, arid barren desert
Stretched before them a shimmering horizon covering many miles
Covered in dust and grit, they trudge on, searching for a meaning
The only sounds are of quiet chanting and weary soles on sand


Environmentalists struggle with logging crew, protecting trees
Researching the ozone layer, distributing precious information
Their battle long and hard as we quickly consume limited resources
At the end of each weary day they gather, talking of progress
Another day dawns on the morrow, many more they aim for us to see

Somewhere in the ghetto; dark of night, a small child cries no more
The babes last breath smothered by rough tobacco stained fingers
Brothers and sisters listen to the silence, terrified but knowing
Waiting for the screams of mother when she returns from work
Silent as their father walks from the babe's room, bottle in hand

A hospital bed, empty as strangers gather personal possessions
Quiet whispers exchanged in the dead calm of a silent ward
"Sad, but she suffered so. Such a kind soul. Poor family."
Sentimental things, cards and flowers all in a bundle in a white room
In the morgue, on a steel table, a body lies; a smile upon her face


Leaders of countries meet around a noisy conference table
Littered with papers, clicking pens and important documents
Translaters interpreting as click cameras flash and whir
Discussing current events, policies, legislation and laws
Politicians proclaim their message like whores on a corner


Vein bulging as needle pierces skin, plunger slowly pushed
Liquid gold, heaven as warmth spreads, infuses throughout
Purple indigo blue and orange yellow green; colours of a dream
Hallucinations, floating escape and a new world of reality
Relaxed body slumps, unkempt, unnoticed in a tiny room

Beside an untucked bed, kneels a small child, four or five
A small prayer, "Dear God, please look after Daddy. Amen."
Kissing Daddy's pic goodnight, he tucks himself in warmly
Hearing Mommy's distant cries through his bedroom wall
His sleep undisturbed by gunshots, grenades and bombs

A religious zealot prays on his swollen, scabby scarred knees
Unaware of his surroundings or any pain; silently praying
As the prayer hour ends he shuffles away on his small stumps
Carrying his prayer book, begging bowl and tattered blanket
All in the name of the search for the endangered species; peace

Dark but real

A dark and somber meditation, deb, but also very realistic. You're not talking about stuff you hallucinated, or made up off the top of your head, that's for sure. My main criticism is you get a little preachy at times, especially in the environmental stanza. But the thing you said which interests me the most is at the beginning, before the actual poem. You say: "I wanted to add happiness and hope but it just didn't want to happen." Why did you want to add happiness and hope? Because of your own psychological need, or because you think most readers will find it too gloomy without at least a positive note at the end? (If that is what you think, you're probably right, you know.) Or both, perhaps?

Once you let go of the need to see things in a hopeful, positive, reassuring light, clear your mind of all preconceptions, and simply try to see the world as it is, plain and unvarnished, then the way ahead becomes clear.

I wanted to add happiness somewhere in there. In fact I tried to. But it just didn't gel. Why did I want to? Because of who I am, an
eternal optimist. In the end reality got me in this poem.
I see so much violence in our world. I seek peace in our world.
Yes; so wanting happiness in this poem not to placate and ease a reader's need fpr a happy ending but to show a light at the end of the tunnel in my mind.

Rereading the environmental stanza I hear you on the preachiness. LOL I will get off my soapbox now. I got a little involved there. I do that, especailly in my stories. I put myself in the place of the people I am writing about and was visualising the struggles.

Thanks for your comments REDWAVE. And for the thread. It was a
very indepth interesting piece for me to write.

bump!

this is untitled and 2 minutes old:



And still soldiers are born
that die or escape from war
and wars go by and come back
because soldiers still are born
soldiers and wars
monotonous as drums
march in steady stride
until the end of the world.

This is all too heavy for me.
BTW, would this be doggerel, or just dog crap?


Ode on an urn of grecian formula


How many times have I spun on the earth
riding round the sun?
So many times that I’ve got to an age that
cannot be trusted.
Worse, I’ve discovered I’m sterile--
my left nut is busted.

A dirty old man with a dirty old mind
and a dirty old car.
Flirty and old make a bed kinda cold,
but why should I bother
when my heart is all rusted?

Viagra and heartburn, pork valves and stents
Thank God and Ron Reagan,
‘least I don’t dye my hair.

Why Pray

because it's all been prayed
it's all been bled
dirty old Aristotle said,
"nature operates in the shortest way possible"
I dye my hair with raspberries
rude noises
finding the truth should be easy
it is all around tripping us
Karma dogs enjoy sunlight
hearts enjoy Rustoleum

Side Tangent

Population Control - 4/29/02

absolutely
no humanity
from the cannibals in the east
no food
no drinks
no smoking
in the jungle depths of
face pierced savages.
no skate boarding
no bikes
no roller-skates
trespassers will be violated
in the cemeteries and churches
no dumping
no sleep
no Jesus
know peace
in the earth
no pets
no girls
no possessions
no religion
in the iron bound
false utopias….imagine

absolutely
no sun
recycle your pets
bullets for grandparents
no old age
no breeding
no middle class in
the privacy of your
state sponsored hovel
no twelve kid, single mother
welfare checks, spay bitches
no sustenance for the homeless
where everybody works
for Nike
for CK
with bleeding fingers
with cardboard shoes
no love
no happiness
no free will in the
aristocratic despotism
no 1st
no 5th
no culture
no hope

absolutely
no creativity
believe what you’re told
no free artistry
no emotion
no music
in the frightened eyes
of the prisoners, they long
to be free more than most
know the meaning.

The Revolution in Focus

(dedicated to those who dream)

I want to make a change!
Throw out your needles and pins.
Figure the light for the best spot
And bring a friend with you.

Convince the brilliant to ponder, not act -
Kick the rest with sensation.
A pile of headlines will wilt spirits
As thunder echoes afar.

A non-corporeal corporation
Brings candies and goodies that shine,
But beneath the baubles and bangles,
Hands pick pockets and leave with a smile.

The grand pronouncement is broadcast
We all salute as it passes,
But focus is felled with an opiate
The masses can't fight cause they blink.

Throw out your needles and pins.
Figure the light for the best spot
And bring a friend with you.
I want to make a change!

I love it!

Some good stuff, guys and gals. My favorite is these two lines by smithpeter:

"finding the truth should be easy
it is all around tripping us"

Yeah, but the problem is, SP, some people still can't recognize the truth even after they've tripped over it!

It's all your doing RW... Good threads just need to be revived from time to time.

This I wrote a couple of weeks ago, but also says something about the state of the world:

Tele-Parabolized Hyperkarma

If I ever trip over the truth, I'll kick it right in the kiester. The sonuvabitch has gotten me in trouble more than once.

Hyper-karma-parabolized!!!

A weird and wild trip there, Lauren-- excellent. I think I know that devil in the coffeehouse,
too. . .

Political Pissed-offedness Posted The Revolution in Focus.

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hmm

I keep forgeting these things...

And still soldiers are born yada-yada-yada is posted too