“Second Birth” tells the story of the rich and the poor; the depravities and blunted feelings weighed down by greed and the need to dominate the “Outliers” willing to fight for false values and lies
I’m always making polar opposite distinctions; the ugly extremes of greed and the hungry souls despairing of life. People on the street with disorders, the potential for violence that surrounds us, money spent on killing and death instead of meaningful, humanitarian measures.
More meaningful, easy to implement approaches with small expenditure …. perhaps one percent of the military budget, could be used, if used right.
A tiny fraction of the defense budget, money spent to kill lives could be used to save lives and keep the fabric of our society from being ripped apart. The success of a simple humane approach, would spread. It could get into the mainstream because of its effectiveness. The returns on the investment in terms of human life, would be huge.
With a twinkle in his eye, Vladimir Putin recently pointed out to Fareed Zakaria that the United States is no longer a democracy. He’s right. As he pointed out, in 3 of five elections presidents were elected with a minority of votes. How could we let this pass by unnoticed? We ARE no longer a democracy.
Putin’s narcissistic need to draw attention to himself made him careless recently but, no one picked up on it. His statement that we are no longer a democracy was a taunt that in my mind was an admittance of his participation in our election. That cocky face told me that, “We proved you are NOT a democracy. That your system is weak,” alluding to the electoral college which, it was the electoral college that elected our president even though he received a minority of the votes. Putin’s cocky smirk was to me, an admittance of Russia’s participation. His smarmy smirk telling us our democracy is weak. He’s setting us up. There IS a conspiracy.
Oh well, overall, I think this poem is bullshit.
Way too many words with too little meaning. Nicely written but contrived, narcissistic. Nothing new, a theme I’ve used many times before, the realization that real birth comes when you go back to where it all stared; a blending of the child and the adult fully integrated.
The piece? A piece of crap I think. Mediocre I think because I let my “self” become too involved in the creative process.
Just for the hell of it, here’s how I write.
I start by throwing down words and phrases that come to me, like clay thrown onto a potters wheel or a block of marble to be sculpted.
After moving things around certain words or phrases create a flash of light and momentarily I might find a spark of meaning. It could be stupid meaning or, something colorful and thought provoking or fragmented and abstract or, worthless to pursue like discovering you’re on the wrong path to the Emerald City.
When I find something with viable meaning I start to work on it like a sculptor would work with a slab of marble searching for the forms hidden inside. ( Only with me, it’s the search for ‘form’ within the words thrown down.)
I like to build my words with sound and color and definition and beat, all equally important for me. It seems poetry can be abstract and meander but behind whatever form it takes there needs to be a good rhythm section.
Sometimes when I’m really lucky I can play the words like Thelonius Monk!
At other times I wax in story telling mode, happy if it’s even a fraction as good as Stephen Vincent Benet, my favorite poet.
Now I’m working on a jig saw puzzle and a paint brush adding details or erasing sometimes endlessly. Faces and shit emerge from the fog.
I try to write ‘in reference’ to or one step removed from the obvious. Why should I make it so easy for the reader, it seems so sophomoric to me and boring. What’s the use in being too concrete if it doesn’t rouse within the reader thought or wonder or a sense of freedom?
I let the ‘abstract’ carry me along and often it feels like I’m channeling from some source of creativity way below the surface. I don’t know the place. All I can say is, it’s a river of creativity and it has to do with dreams and occasionally it overflows its banks or rains on us and we get to glimpse something beyond the so-called ‘real world’.
As I struggle to make sense of my words I start seeing events from the past when light sparks for fractions of a second and I see exchanges between myself and many people or circumstances I hadn’t thought about for years; catching a grounder at first base, bedroom scenes, the time I met a friend on the street I hadn’t seen for a long time or, the hilarity my best friend Buzz and I felt when we heard the word “bullshit” spoken for the first time by two older kids, while we were walking home from school one day.
So, I keep working, dabbing some purple there, striking long lines for simplicity. This goes on and on until I feel I’ve found and formed something from the words and should step away. If I don’t, I often spoil the freshness even though the words might not be grammatically correct.
The writing in this poem “Second Birth” isn’t so bad but the words and thoughts are extemporaneous, spoken or done without much preparation. Not well thought out.
The distinctions between the poor downtroden and those ‘outliers’ with guns and misunderstanding guided by forceful rhetoric spoken to them in Hitlerish fashion from the mouth of the beast throwing fire onto the source of their dogmatic thoughts are separate from each other. .
Too many distractions blow a hole through the finality of a pretty good ending.
Maybe I’ll go back in and throw it in the trash.
Thanks for all you are … ks