GENIUS OF THE CROWD by Charles Bukowski

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

 

CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.

I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man’s door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me
Shall you be overcome.

EXAMINATION AT THE WOMB-DOOR by Ted Hughes

 

Who owns those scrawny little feet?    Death
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face?    Death
Who owns these still-working lungs?    Death
Who owns this utility coat of muscles?    Death
Who owns these unspeakable guts?    Death
Who owns these questionable brains?    Death
All this messy blood?    Death
These minimum-efficiency eyes?    Death
This wicked little tongue?    Death
This occasional wakefulness?    Death

Given, stolen, or held pending trial? 
Held. 

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth?    Death
Who owns all of space?    Death

Who is stronger than hope?    Death
Who is stronger than the will?    Death
Stronger than love?    Death
Stronger than life?    Death

But who is stronger than Death
                           Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.

One Response to “Poetry Waif”

  1. Alida Says:

    I simply fell upon your blog while surfing. I am captivated by your; brillance, beauty and perserverance. Thank you for sharing so intimately of your experiences. Your pics are stunningly attractive.

    I wish you blessings of joy and longevity with your beautiful family.

    Sincerely,
    aly

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