deepundergroundpoetry.com
“DEAD BEFORE YOU KNEW IT”
Anecdotal evidence from an artist’s life, that art is life and life is love, death and justice.
I am firstly a song-writer. Not a well known one. But I write a lot of songs and some people listen to them. Secondly, I am a poet. I began writing poetry before I could play a guitar. I find poetry to be more difficult than song writing. Although there is poetry in my song writing, a poem that stands alone is precious and therefore, since I accomplish it less, I am secondarily a poet. Poetry, to me, is the purest form of emotional expression available to man. A good poem is a rare jewel created in the depths of a human being, an explosion of creative passion that penetrates and communicates with a reader in some amazing way. Thirdly, I am a writer of prose- a beginner. I have written a few short stories, a few more satires and commentaries, few of which have been shared and none of which have been published.
I write about three things, mainly. I write (in no particular order) about love, death and justice. I write about death because it is there. I’ve seen death, in several different forms. We all know he’s out there. I don’t write about death because I think the writing will ward him off-to charm the cobra in the basket, so to speak; or because I think I will be able to see through the exercise into the deeper secrets of the universe. I write about death because I think he ought to be sung to. I think death ought to be openly acknowledged as the common experience of all people everywhere. Rich, poor, old, young, the good, the bad-we have two experiences in common. We all breathe. We will all stop breathing. Ok. So there it is. Humor, mourning, anger, incredulity, fear, hope…. Every thought and emotion is challenged by the prospect, and the inscrutable aspect of death. I write about death as a metaphoric “he”, because only a man can take life so easily, so naturally. Women must work so much harder to become killers, because the womb is the cradle of life and the unique treasure of their being.
I write about love because love is the reason for everything. I miss you because I love you. I want you because I love you. I hate you because I love you. The beauty of love is in its elusiveness. It can be hard to find, harder to keep. The mystery of it astounds us all- even those who pledge no allegiance to it. The same woman, who pours out love upon a child, pours contempt upon her man. The same man who longs for the love of his wife, pours out affection upon a lover for whom he has no respect. A man or woman dies to protect the ones they love, who rarely perceive the sacrifice made. The love we long for is often lost in careless moments as we pursue the “things we love”. The love dims in art as we pursue perfection and recognition. The real perfection runs through our fingers as we rewarded for our pristine illusions. Yet, all the time, while we are gambling with love- we listen to songs about the ideal of love. We read stories about finding love and losing love. Our lovers do not always love us and we often consume the ones who do love us in the search for a treasure we never saw as it rested upon our bosom. We weep over the loss of a love we piddled away over trinkets of money and ego and pride. We leap forward after love again without realizing that we haven’t changed the killer of love within. There he comes again. “Death, meet Love.”
We jump off a bridge. We fly to close to the sun. Infatuation with one love swallows and destroys the other things we love until it has only its self left to consume. Even the bitter are only so because they no longer believe they can have love. Their very bitterness testifies to the core belief that love is really out there, but it is relentlessly eluding their efforts to possess it. Love leaves all her owners behind. Only the lovers remain in love.
I write about love, not because I know her so well, but because I hope for her. I mourn her. I rejoice in her presence as do we all who are still sane and human. I am just sharing the common desire of all beings, to love and be loved, with fellow beings (who may or may not feel loved).
Thus we come to justice. Justice is like an angry lover. She will scream at you without reserve, “You have not been paying attention to me. If you keep ignoring me- I WILL LEAVE YOU AND DESTROY YOU ON THE WAY OUT!” She is a blind passionate lover. She demands that you listen to her. If you leave her she will take all you hold dear. If you return to her she will give you everything. Love, death, passion, peril, reason. Yet, the more you give her the more she desires. She will never let you dream until she is satisfied . She holds in her hands the weight of the world. The balance between love and death are hinged at her waist. As she bends more deeply towards death she screams. “This is not right! This is not right!” Everyone hears her. Some will run to her as lovers, seeking to assuage her pain and pull her upright. Others will stand back and chuckle to one another. “Get another blindfold, stuff it in her mouth”!
Still others will pretend they cannot hear. They will argue about the details. They will ignore the multitude of voices that are screaming out from the heart of the blind and beautiful lady justice as she bends and weeps, straining to hold love aloft against the increasing weight of death. This is what justice means to me. I will love even if it kills me.
Beyond the aspect of justice as a fearless all consuming lover, there is another reason why justice is a lady. Only a woman knows when to put the brakes on. When a man has left the love of justice and is using the language of it to make his own place in his world, a woman knows. Her womb remembers the reason for life and love. She knows when her son or daughter is going off to die upon the altar of the egos and appetites of men who rail at one another about Justice as they send their children off to die upon their whims. Only a woman knows this: when there is no consideration for love (by that I mean the fundamental love due all beings from all beings) there is no justice. No right side. No wrong side. Don’t ask me to die for you. If I must die, let it be for love. If you cross the line from love into death and let go the balance- better you do the dying. You ask my child for the courage to die for your “justice”. Yet you refuse to stand and be counted. You prostitute your love at election time and sell yourself to every moneyed interest because if you ever intended to serve- you serve no longer. You simply rule in your own interests and your love is dead and buried.
Death comes for us all. Life is for lovers. Live for the ones you love and cry out with the blind lady, “This is not right”. Don’t sweat the details. They won’t change anyway until more people are so willing to stand for love, that they accept death as a part of the bargain. Thus the balance is restored and the blind lover’s jealous screams become songs of joy.
If love is what gives meaning to life in the short space between birth and the terminal day- then dying is what we are doing when we are ignoring those impassioned screams of the angry lover. Justice is the balance between love and death.If you turn your back on justice, you will never really know love. Without love, you were “Dead before you knew it”. Why, that ought to be the title of a song or a story somewhere.
I am firstly a song-writer. Not a well known one. But I write a lot of songs and some people listen to them. Secondly, I am a poet. I began writing poetry before I could play a guitar. I find poetry to be more difficult than song writing. Although there is poetry in my song writing, a poem that stands alone is precious and therefore, since I accomplish it less, I am secondarily a poet. Poetry, to me, is the purest form of emotional expression available to man. A good poem is a rare jewel created in the depths of a human being, an explosion of creative passion that penetrates and communicates with a reader in some amazing way. Thirdly, I am a writer of prose- a beginner. I have written a few short stories, a few more satires and commentaries, few of which have been shared and none of which have been published.
I write about three things, mainly. I write (in no particular order) about love, death and justice. I write about death because it is there. I’ve seen death, in several different forms. We all know he’s out there. I don’t write about death because I think the writing will ward him off-to charm the cobra in the basket, so to speak; or because I think I will be able to see through the exercise into the deeper secrets of the universe. I write about death because I think he ought to be sung to. I think death ought to be openly acknowledged as the common experience of all people everywhere. Rich, poor, old, young, the good, the bad-we have two experiences in common. We all breathe. We will all stop breathing. Ok. So there it is. Humor, mourning, anger, incredulity, fear, hope…. Every thought and emotion is challenged by the prospect, and the inscrutable aspect of death. I write about death as a metaphoric “he”, because only a man can take life so easily, so naturally. Women must work so much harder to become killers, because the womb is the cradle of life and the unique treasure of their being.
I write about love because love is the reason for everything. I miss you because I love you. I want you because I love you. I hate you because I love you. The beauty of love is in its elusiveness. It can be hard to find, harder to keep. The mystery of it astounds us all- even those who pledge no allegiance to it. The same woman, who pours out love upon a child, pours contempt upon her man. The same man who longs for the love of his wife, pours out affection upon a lover for whom he has no respect. A man or woman dies to protect the ones they love, who rarely perceive the sacrifice made. The love we long for is often lost in careless moments as we pursue the “things we love”. The love dims in art as we pursue perfection and recognition. The real perfection runs through our fingers as we rewarded for our pristine illusions. Yet, all the time, while we are gambling with love- we listen to songs about the ideal of love. We read stories about finding love and losing love. Our lovers do not always love us and we often consume the ones who do love us in the search for a treasure we never saw as it rested upon our bosom. We weep over the loss of a love we piddled away over trinkets of money and ego and pride. We leap forward after love again without realizing that we haven’t changed the killer of love within. There he comes again. “Death, meet Love.”
We jump off a bridge. We fly to close to the sun. Infatuation with one love swallows and destroys the other things we love until it has only its self left to consume. Even the bitter are only so because they no longer believe they can have love. Their very bitterness testifies to the core belief that love is really out there, but it is relentlessly eluding their efforts to possess it. Love leaves all her owners behind. Only the lovers remain in love.
I write about love, not because I know her so well, but because I hope for her. I mourn her. I rejoice in her presence as do we all who are still sane and human. I am just sharing the common desire of all beings, to love and be loved, with fellow beings (who may or may not feel loved).
Thus we come to justice. Justice is like an angry lover. She will scream at you without reserve, “You have not been paying attention to me. If you keep ignoring me- I WILL LEAVE YOU AND DESTROY YOU ON THE WAY OUT!” She is a blind passionate lover. She demands that you listen to her. If you leave her she will take all you hold dear. If you return to her she will give you everything. Love, death, passion, peril, reason. Yet, the more you give her the more she desires. She will never let you dream until she is satisfied . She holds in her hands the weight of the world. The balance between love and death are hinged at her waist. As she bends more deeply towards death she screams. “This is not right! This is not right!” Everyone hears her. Some will run to her as lovers, seeking to assuage her pain and pull her upright. Others will stand back and chuckle to one another. “Get another blindfold, stuff it in her mouth”!
Still others will pretend they cannot hear. They will argue about the details. They will ignore the multitude of voices that are screaming out from the heart of the blind and beautiful lady justice as she bends and weeps, straining to hold love aloft against the increasing weight of death. This is what justice means to me. I will love even if it kills me.
Beyond the aspect of justice as a fearless all consuming lover, there is another reason why justice is a lady. Only a woman knows when to put the brakes on. When a man has left the love of justice and is using the language of it to make his own place in his world, a woman knows. Her womb remembers the reason for life and love. She knows when her son or daughter is going off to die upon the altar of the egos and appetites of men who rail at one another about Justice as they send their children off to die upon their whims. Only a woman knows this: when there is no consideration for love (by that I mean the fundamental love due all beings from all beings) there is no justice. No right side. No wrong side. Don’t ask me to die for you. If I must die, let it be for love. If you cross the line from love into death and let go the balance- better you do the dying. You ask my child for the courage to die for your “justice”. Yet you refuse to stand and be counted. You prostitute your love at election time and sell yourself to every moneyed interest because if you ever intended to serve- you serve no longer. You simply rule in your own interests and your love is dead and buried.
Death comes for us all. Life is for lovers. Live for the ones you love and cry out with the blind lady, “This is not right”. Don’t sweat the details. They won’t change anyway until more people are so willing to stand for love, that they accept death as a part of the bargain. Thus the balance is restored and the blind lover’s jealous screams become songs of joy.
If love is what gives meaning to life in the short space between birth and the terminal day- then dying is what we are doing when we are ignoring those impassioned screams of the angry lover. Justice is the balance between love and death.If you turn your back on justice, you will never really know love. Without love, you were “Dead before you knew it”. Why, that ought to be the title of a song or a story somewhere.
Published 5th Oct 2012
| Edited 19th Oct 2012
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