SELFISH EDUCATION MINUS POETICAL WISDOM
MAKES THE WORLD LAME
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; firstname.lastname@example.org)
Nothing is wrong with selfish education;
Career is an important part of a good life
Much of human life over the years
Is devoted to career acquisition
In oblivion of poetical wisdom
Philosophy does not make it any easier,ok
For apothecaries to remove a prostate gland;
Apothecarical education is long, arduous and dear in cost
Never temper it with apparent irrelevance
But poetical wisdom soothes the tools
Helps apothecaries to volite in dilemma
Poetical wisdom is essential for apothecary’s work
Without it; apothecary tells a mother-to-be
Your baby will be a dwarf dwarfishly
The apothecary explains the mother’s options yet in fault
Since it takes more than just knowledge of genetics
Since it requires an understanding of suffering,
Of disappointment and puerperal attachment
Apothecary tell a daughter but in sham; that
Your mother’s life support needs to be removed
It takes more than just knowledge of physiology
It too requires an understanding of emotional loss
A casualty room apothecary goofs to avoid despair
When faced with a baby battered nearly to death
By its own zinjathropus father
Such horror requires a faith in humanity
That cannot be learned in the selfish education
It’s not just apothecaries absolute
To benefit from a broader learning
It is but entire humanity
Studying drama would no help financiers
Devise capricious financial parasites
That doomed the world into financial mire
But, if they were familiar with Faust,
They may have thought twice about
The consequences of their vice,
Being able to sing from Shelley’s poems
Will not help politicians get elected
Carousing Ozymandias might make them more humble
And thoughtful about their accomplishments
Rupert Murdoch might not now be shaking his head
And whining; how I wish I new
Instead, he were to echo Shakespeare’s words
About how easy it is to be; done to death by a slanderous tongue,
I sing this poem in a crouch in the twilight
Around the world as my audience
Behold poetic eyebrows of my comrades,
A generation of humanity familiar poetical kingdoms
Of history, philosophy and literature is a wonderful vision
Doubts not that reading Goethe
And Shelley and Shakespeare guarantees wisdom
You are correct, kudos to you,
Reading, by itself, won’t make anyone a sage
Experience is a pertinent Florence
As Odysseus learns on his journey back to Ithaca,
Important lessons can only be learned the hard way
Through bitter experience, perhaps has a change,
Youth start out with sex, drugs, rock and roll
With experience they eventually emotions decadence
In calm appreciation that; nothing to excess,
Tragic exceptions like poor Amy Wine house;
Only serve to prove the rule, there is a problem,
Ergo, Experience alone cannot guarantee wisdom
Any more than reading books can
The lessons of life are only available
To those who are ready to learn them
If wisdom is the goal, then humanity must walk 10,000 miles,
To read 10,000 books
Said 17th century Chinese philosopher, GU Yanwu
Becoming wise requires more than set of adventures
But a cultured mind that is open and liberal
Readily able to absorb the lessons that experience teaches
Pasteur famously said that; Chance favours the prepared mind
Our job as learning humanity is to take his words seriously
Prepare mankind to learn from experience,
Humanity is to go beyond selfish education
To learn colours of hope in the poetical wisdom;
Life, death, tragedy, love, beauty, courage, loyalty
All of these are omitted from selfish education
yet, when it comes time to sum up our lives,
They are the only things that ever go places,
Catholic priesthood ever admonishes the flocks;
Thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return
A salutary reminder of what we all have in waiting f
Like the Preacher in the Ecclesiastes;
We spend our years trying to find some meaning in our lives
It is easy to fall into the bottomless pit
Life is tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing
But before humanity reaches Macbeth’s conclusion,
We must provide with the poetical glory
Musing fortunately as all humanities is anxious
There is a thirsty for poetical wisdom
Which parochial selfish education cannot quench,
There ought to be a list of great poetical works
From east, west, north and south of the world
Globalectically Nursing poetic urge of the earth
With which every piece of humanity should suckle
In wisdom that Books have the power to convey wisdom,
From these poetical sources that humanity learn about love
And loss, about memory and desire,
About loyalty and duty,
About our world and love-bound universe
And about what it means to be a human being
I'm me, you, us, I'm them.
I'm the living, the dead, I'm the ever still.
I'm the saint, I'm the wicked, the martyr and the perpetrator.
I'm the Homos, Habilis to Sapiens.
I'm the villain, the savior and victim.
I'm the dictator, the revolution and the people.
I'm anguish and comfort in hearts.
I'm the air, the oxygen, and the carbon dioxide.
I'm the shore, the ocean waves and foam.
I'm the ocean, the depths, the beasts and unknown marvels within.
I'm the ground, the layers of stone, sand and remains.
I'm the earth, the atmosphere, and inner core.
I'm the sun, the explosions, and the ashes of time traveling erupted stars.
I'm the planets, far and near, circulating and in a queue.
I'm the moon, and the dwarf planets.
I'm the pitch black hole, and the morose wormhole.
I'm the solar system, the milky way and its lost siblings.
I'm life in the galaxies.
I'm the universe, and the parallel universe.
I'm the big bang, I'm the end of time.
I am, immortality.
i cried so much.
but only on the inside.
i hurt so deep.
but the hurt aint coming out to outside.
it just lays there.
resonating like the moan of a whale.
silent and still.
and im floating on the surface.
hearing the waves of the ocean crash into the sea.
like my sanity, the tides rise and sink.
and im keeping it in.
burying the feelings.
departing from it.
but i fear.. the builup of suppression.
like the fear of the unknown
may come crashing like a tsunami of feelings.
like a death of a star.
will it be strong enough for a supernova or just die out like a dwarf star.
deep as the ocean is my mind.
vast and unknown like the stars in the sky
my own emotions are my mystery.
Banality is a symptom—
The condition: a love long since
on the blink
it sits now like a drunken dwarf
hoary & fiendish; this creature
Conceived in half-high dreams
Expiating for these primeval crimes
Commited only to your memory
O, my love-- it is all much fainter
Than this furtive lie of ours
All these bodies laying blue with lily white accords
it just gets really hard
i'm a horny college student
and a hopeless romantic
they tend to bob and weave too much
i want you to pull my hair
BUT i want you to kiss me softly
i want to drunkenly make out with you
text me back first though i'm too scared
it all doesn't help
when my intoxicated alter ego is a temptress
and i turn into bashful the dwarf in real life
it makes things really quite hard
Life is good, life is bad,
sometimes happy, sometimes sad.
Drink a beer, smoke a bong,
listening to your favorite song.
Sometimes manic, sometimes depressed,
pop a pill if you get stressed.
Reach for the stars, follow your dreams,
when having a nightmare, silent your screams.
Drive around that bump in the road,
never play baseball with a live toad.
Think positive and always smile,
even when it feels like you're on trial.
When life seems way out of hand,
put your friends on the witness stand.
Life is never as bad as you think,
just remember the inside is always pink.
When you're happy, things will go your way,
life is a constant game, we must play.
First we're born, last we die,
always laugh and never cry.
I wish we all could be in the buff,
in an orgy, is eight really enough.
When young, life is so damn easy,
meet the eighth dwarf, they call me sleazy.
As you get older, there are so many responsibilities,
but whatever you do, never doubt your capabilities.
I find nothing wrong with being a bit perverted,
my family and friends have never deserted.
Personally, I like being among the living,
except for that day they call Thanksgiving.
If you ever need me, just give me a call,
there is no problem too large or small.
These five words I say to you,
girls always love my fondue.
Stars are stars
That is all.
Oh they're pretty, but pointless
We stand in awe
Of gas and heat and specks of dust
Stars destroy, they just consume everything around them,
Imploding when there is nothing left.
Stars are stars
And when they are gone
They are but a shadow that lingers to remind scientists an infinite distance away
Of what a big ball of bright that dark little dwarf used to be
I cringe when you look up at the stars and see so much more in them
Beauty and hope and God and good.
You smile up at them
And knowing if your smile is all a star is useful for
Then I will keep quiet
Keep looking up with you
Keep my telescope under my bed.
I know what they really are
But I'll never tell you
Fate will find you on a still, moon-filled night
Lying on the shores of a black pool of ink
So you dip your pen in, and then you begin
To slowly lose your ability to think
But chaos bubbles up, the reversal of all order
The mind begins being pulled apart by the senses
Desires may enter your ocean but should never move it
Still, in the daylight, the urges are relentless
So I pray, let me be moon-faced
By a white dwarf illumination
Let me lie in a dreamless state
Process of elimination
And when my nightmares are relinquished
I’ll chant something like OM
Wishing I’ll return to the stars
My one and only home
Where’s your vantage point
In the empty jungle of space
Lick, chew, suck, swallow
The moon contains our taste
So are you here to conquer,
Destroy or explore?
Find the baby in the bubble
And open up the door
Believed I was Faust
Clever and young
Dangerous and dashing
I was wrong
I dealt with devils
And ate with kings
Devoured young maidens
I am the beast
Back from the dead
Stealing young dreams
Walking in stolen skin
Tricking the masses
Dwarf in the bottle
Never in control
I met Faust once
He passed me by
I stole his look and way
I believed the lie
The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
the King will soon surrender”.
The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Pieces, pacing, pale and wan,
watch Queen deflowered, Pawn by Pawn,
The Knights dare not defend her.
They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One that they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
they’re black and white, transgender.
The feeble minded Cleric clowns,
mouths hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds,
while Fantom of the Opera frowns
when blessing bent repenters.
The empty handed Vagabond
smokes stale cigars, strokes faded Blondes,
waits wailing at the walls beyond,
and kneels before he enters.
While peeking through the window panes
in fear of distant Hurricanes,
they’re spinning round and round in chains,
defying life’s tormentors.
The Savants serve the underfed
while Jackals scrape the river bed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
adorn, with crumbs, the platter.
The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if instead he’s served the plague,
it really doesn’t matter.
His Princess, Pale, no longer feigns,
she’s hiding from (the Dwarf explains)
the coming of the Hurricanes.
The Stones stare, pointing at her.
The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
but No One looks to listen.
The Joker Wilde and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
and Priests no longer christen.
They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans.
While pitching pennies into ponds,
their eyes opaquely glisten.
The Hunchbacks with their twisted canes
will bow before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
in bruised and battered sandals.
Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
for Night Time brooks no candles.
Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
though taunting to the Vandals .
The Beggars, neath the balustrades,
stop chiding Children, Chambermaids,
for darning socks with broken blades,
as screams in dreams redouble.
Reweaving webs with endless threads,
crocheting hats to hide their heads,
they have no coats, they have no beds,
their faces, full of rubble.
Yet something else will entertain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with pink champagnes
dissolve in purple bubbles.
The White-Robed Maiden empties trash,
and fumbles with an untied sash,
– her virgin urn’s awash in ash –
she’s pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes converge in coffee spoons
(her memories adrift in dunes),
yet still she smiles with teeth like prunes,
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains
– the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains –
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and his Four-Inch Queens,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of minutes lost or stolen.
They stumble through the old domains,
but cannot stop the Hurricanes –
the fountain weeps, the mountain wanes,
the waves just keep on rollin’.
The Crowds arrayed in jewels, in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails –
the vacuum in their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They’re sleeping there because they must,
their eyelids twitch like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust,
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.