Dear Poet Friends, I conclude this series on The Enigma of Time by mentioning few important features about the concept of Time according to Modern Philosophy and Science. I have used a
simple format, and also tried my best to simplify the concepts for your kind appreciation. Unfortunately, there is no provision on this Poetry Site to show Diagrams to elucidate! If you like this one, kindly repost the same for wider circulation! Thank you, Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
            
       CONCLUDING THE ENIGMA OF TIME IN VERSE:
                      PART THREE – BY RAJ NANDY
              
              TIME ACCORDING TO MODERN PHILOSOPHY

UNREALITY Of TIME : Mc Taggart’s ‘A’ and ‘B’ Series:
Now skipping through the pages I come to Modern Philosophy, with Mc Taggart the British philosopher of the 20th Century.
He had acquired a substantial following with his 1908 paper on the ‘Unreality of Time’ initially.
With his quibbling argument he states, that moments in his ‘A’ Series of Time are either of past tense, present tense, or of future tense.
It is all about human perception, since we experience the past through our memories;
Become aware of the present through our senses, while future is pretty unknowable.
Here time appears to be flowing through us, as nothing remains stable around us!

In his ‘B’ Series of Time Mc Taggart expresses differences in moments of time as either Before or After,
Without using the tenses used in his ‘A’ Series of Time.
All parts in time can be expressed equally as points along a time line, in the absence of past, present, and future tense;
While here we appear to be flying through time in a metaphorical sense!
Thus in the ‘A series’ time appears to be flowing through us, but in ‘B series’ we seem to be flying through time on a timeline created by us!
Therefore, Mc Taggart finds both the ‘A’ and ‘B’ Series describing Time to be inadequate and also contradictory;
And he finally concludes that Time is unreal and does not exist in reality!

How Mc Taggart’s Theory Was  Updated :
Modern Philosophers have re-casted Mc Taggart’s theory in term of findings of Modern Physics.
His A-Theory is updated into ‘PRESENTISM’, which holds that only thing that is real is the ‘present moment’.
In ‘Presentism’ time has no past or future, and time has no duration either!
All things come into existence and drop out of existence, and past events no longer exist;
And since the future is undefined or merely potential, it too does not exist!

His B-theory is re-formulated into ‘ETERNALISM’ or the ‘Block Universe’, influenced by the later Theory of Relativity.
‘Eternalism’ holds that past events do exist even if we cannot immediately experience them, and future events also exists in a very real way.
The ‘flow of time’ we experience is just an illusion of consciousness.
Since in reality, time is always everywhere in an eternal sense!

Theory of Growing Block Universe:
It was proposed by the Englishman CD Broad in 1923, as an alternative to ‘Presentism’ where only the present exist;
And also as an alternative to ‘Eternalism’ where past, present, and future together also exist.
In ‘Growing Block Universe’ only the past and the present exist, but not the future.
Since the growing of the block happens in the present, with a very thin slice of space-time continuously coming into existence;  
Where consciousness as well as the flow of time are not active within the past,  
But they can occur only at the boundary of this ‘Growing Block Universe’!
Few scholars this concept did criticise, saying that in this theory the word ‘now’ can no longer be used to define Time!

But according to Einstein, this perception of ‘now’ that appears to move along a timeline, creating the illusion of ‘flow of time’, arises purely as a result of human consciousness;
And the way our brains are wired due to our evolutionary process, enabling us to deal with the world around us in a practical sense.
“People like us, who believe in Physics, know that the duration between the past, present, and the future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion,’’ said Einstein.

A poem on ‘The Paradox of Time’:
Now to lighten up my Reader’s mind, I present only the first three stanzas from ‘’The Paradox of Time’’, composed by the British poet Austin Dobson:
  “Time goes, you say? Ah no!
   Alas, Time stays, we go;
      Or else, were this not so,
  What need to chain the hours,
  For youth were always ours?

  Ours is the eye’s deceit
  Of men whose flying feet
     Lead through some landscape low;
  We pass, and think we see
  The earth’s fixed surface flee,
     Alas, time stays, we go!

  Once in the days of old
  Your locks were curling gold,
     And mine had shamed the crow.
  Now, in the self-same stage,
  We’ve reached the silver age,
  Time goes, you say? - ah no!
       Alas, time stays, we go!”
            
HOW LIGHT IS CONNECTED WITH THE CONCEPT OF TIME:
Brief Background:
I commence with quotes from the ‘Book of Genesis’ - Chapter One, along with my thoughts about Light and Time,
Before concluding this series with Albert Einstein’s concept of Space-Time.

“And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day. ……And God said, “Let there be lights in the vault of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark sacred times, and days and years, and let them be lights in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth. And it was so.”
                                                      - BOOK Of GENESIS Chapter One.

Since ancient days, Light had acquired a religious and a spiritual significance.
Since Light became associated with goodness, intelligence and ultimate realty;
Light accompanies transcendence into Nirvana of Buddhist religious philosophy.
In due course the Sun began to be worshipped as an important live-giving deity.
As seen in the symbolic form of Egyptian Sun God Ra, and the Greek gods Helios and Hyperion as the Sun god and god of Light respectively.
In Hindu mythology Surya is the Sun god, and Ushas the goddess of Light.
Huitzilopochti, both the Sun god and god of War of the Ancient Aztecs was kept pleased with human sacrifice!

SOME PROPERTIES OF LIGHT:
Plato, during the 5th Century BC said that God was unable to make the World eternal, so gave it Time,  - “as the moving image of eternity.”
While some seven hundred years later St. Augustine in his ‘Confessions’ said,
That when God created the universe out of darkness with light, “the world was also created with Time, and not in time.”
Thus along with light, time also began to flow, while our scientists discovered a connection between the speed of light and time, few centuries ago!
To understand this connection between light and time, we must first understand something about the properties of light.
Light is the visible part of the electromagnetic spectrum* which can be perceived by our human eye.         (See Notes Below)
As seen in the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet colors of the Rainbow in the sky,
When water droplets acting like countless prisms break up white sunlight!
Now this electromagnetic spectrum also contains the ultra violet and infra red spectrum which our eyes cannot see.
But this entire electromagnetic spectrum contains Photons, which are discreet packets of zero mass less energy.
In a vacuum light photons travel at 186,000 miles for second, which Einstein declared as the cosmic speed limit, and as an universal constant.
When a photon strikes the eye, it is turned into electrical energy that is transmitted to the brain to form an image which we call sight.

NOTES : Gama-rays, X-rays, Ultraviolet lights, have shorter wave lengths & more energy than Visible light. But Infrared, Microwave, Radio waves, with larger wave lengths are less energetic than the Visible spectrum of light. Sir Isaac Newton using a prism had discovered the spectrum of visible light, & used the word ‘spectrum’ for the first time in his book ‘Optick’ in 1671.

EINSTEIN'S SPECIAL THEORY OF RELATIVITY 1905 :
In his Special Theory of Relativity of 1905, he stated that nothing can move faster than speed of light which is 186,000 miles per second.
This speed of light always remains the same, irrespective of its source and frame of reference.
Now the mass of an object would double if it travels at 90% of light’s speed.
But if the speed of light is reached, mass of an object would become infinite!
Since photons, the quantum particles that make up light have a zero mass, they move at the speed of light.
Even inside the World’s Largest Particle Collider (LDC), located near the French-Swiss Border,
Experiments are carried out only around 99.99% of Light’s speed, in accordance with the Laws of Physics.
Einstein had also shown mathematically that on reaching Light’s speed, Time will come to a standstill!
And should this Light’s speed be exceeded, then Time would start to travel backwards, which becomes a mind boggling concept!
Here we enter into the realm of science fiction, which has been described by HG Wells  in his popular novel ‘The Time Machine’.
But to become a time traveler shall always remain our cherished desire and dream!

NOTES: Only mass less particles like the photon can travel at light speed, photons experience no time, they do not age. Objects with mass cannot reach the speed of light since in that case its mass will become infinite. Also, one cannot see the fourth dimension because of Lorenz Contraction, which is also related to stopping of time, for at the speed of light an object will shrink to zero length! Also, particles interact with the Higgs' Field present all around to pick up mass, excepting photons which do not interact with this Higgs' Field.

Now Einstein’s theory of 1905 is called ‘Special’, because it explains how space and time are linked for objects that are moving in a straight line at a greater speed but which is constant.
Time moves relative to the observer, and objects in motion experience ‘Time Dilation’.
Meaning, time moves slowly when it is in motion, as compared to one who is standing still, -  a relative comparison.
This can be further explained by the ‘Twin Paradox’, where a 15 year old travelling in a spaceship at 99.5% speed of light for a period of 5 years,
Returns back to Earth to find himself to be only 20 years old.
But to his surprise he finds, his twin brother on Earth who was left behind, has reached the ripe age of 65 !

Limitations of Special Theory of Relativity:
It was confined to non-accelerating bodies only, and after ten years of deliberation,
Einstein added gravitational force field, space-time curvature, and acceleration, -
To formulate his General Theory of Relativity with satisfaction.

   SPACE-TIME & GENERAL THEORY OF RELATIVITY 1916 :
Isaac Newton during the 17th Century spoke about 'absolute time' and 'absolute space', accordance to the understanding of science of his Classical Age.
Space was the arena where the drama of the universe was played out, and this arena was passive, eternal, and unchanging no doubt.
Time too was absolute with an independent existence, and continued to beat independently like the heart beat of Space!
Newton also gave us the Laws of Motion, and Gravity, with more massive objects exerting more Gravity than a less massive one in reality.
Now one aspect of Special Relativity is that space and time are merged into a four-dimensional space-time entity,
They do not exist as separately as envisaged by Newton and Descartes during the 17th Century.
Some 250 years later Albert Einstein, defined Gravity as a curvature of Space-time.
Einstein also tells us that gravity can bend light, which travels along the curvature of this space-time.
Gravity is flexible, it could stretch like a fabric warping of space-time caused by objects present within it, in fact Gravity is the shape of space-time itself!
The Moon rolls around the curvature created in space-time fabric by the heavier object the Earth,
Just like the massive Sun which creates the depression and curvature around it for the planets of our solar system to orbit round the Sun. *
Einstein’s space-time has been likened to a stretched out vast rubber sheet,
Where heavier the planet, more depression it creates on the fabric of space-time along with its own gravitational field.
Einstein’s Space is not passive like that of Newton, but has a dynamic presence.
Interwoven with Time, Space tells Matter how to move, while Matter tells Space-Time how to curve - in this dynamic presence!
The constant speed of light at 186,000 miles per second, is just a measure of space of something which travels over time;
But both space and time had to adjust themselves to accommodate the constant speed of light!
Thus space, time, and the speed of light are all unified in the General Theory of Relativity,
We owe all this to Albert Einstein, one of the greatest scientists of our Century.
NOTES: **Planets orbiting the Sun do not fall back into the void of space due to the attraction of gravity, and also due to their individual speed of acceleration maintained in orbit as per Kepler's Second Law of Planetary Motion. Mercury has the fastest orbital speed of 48 km per second, Venus at 35 km per sec , and Earth at 30 km per sec. as their orbital speeds. Planets further from the Sun require lesser orbital speed.

UNFINISHED WORK OF EINSTEIN:
During his later years Einstein was secretly working to find a ‘Theory of Everything’,
Which would ultimately replace the erratic tiny micro world of Quantum Mechanics.
His Theory of General Relativity had dealt with the functions of gravity at the greater macro level of the universe only.
So he hoped to extend this theory to find an all embracing Unified Field Theory.
For at the subatomic quantum level, as the Englishman Thomson discovered in 1897,
The electrons inside an atom at times behaved in an alien fashion and were very unstable!
This world of the subatomic particles is a wondrous world where time becomes chaotic;
Where the position of the electrons cannot be predicted with certainty!
Einstein called this unpredictable and unstable behaviour of electrons as "spooky action at a distance"!
In the ‘double-split experiment’ it was seen, that the light photons behaved both like waves and as particles, -
Even though the speed of light remained constant.

EINSTEIN'S NOBLE PRIZE For PHYSICS AWARDED IN 1921:
Now despite Einstein's dissatisfaction with Quantum Mechanics it is rather ironical,
That the Nobel Prize in Physics was awarded to Einstein for his work on the ‘Photoelectric Effect’ at the Quantum level;
Which for the first time had suggested that Light travelled in Waves and also as Particles ( i.e. as photon)!
This observation led to the development of electron microscope, solar panels, night vision devices, at a later date.
Since his Special and General Theory of Relativity considered as ‘The Pillars of Modern Physics’, was still being examined by the Scientific Community;
And they could be proved and accepted only subsequently.

'STRING THEORY' PROPOSED AS THEORY FOR EVERYTHING:
During the 1970s the proponents of ‘String Theory’ had claimed, They found a Theory of Everything, following Einstein’s quest.
They claimed that micro vibrating open and closed looped strings gave rise to some 36 particles at the subatomic level;
But also required 10 dimensions for this 'String Theory' to operate!
In our Standard Model of Physics we have only 18 particles as on date, therefore due to lack of scientific evidence,
There was no Noble Prize for those ‘String Theory’ proponents!
Efforts are on to find a Unified Theory of Everything, and to understand the mysteries of God’s infinite universe, -
We finite humans have just made a beginning!

Now, to reduce the length of my composition I conclude with a short verse by the famous novelist and poet DH Lawrence, -
Who had shocked Victorian England with his explosive ****** novel “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”,
Which later inspired Hollywood, and a film got made.

               RELATIVITY
“I like relativity and quantum theories
because I don’t understand them,
and they make me feel as if space shifted about like
a swan that can’t settle,
refusing to sit still and be measured;
and as if the atom were an impulsive thing
always changing its mind.”  – DH Lawrence.

Thanks for reading patiently,
‘All Copy Rights Are With The Author Only’, - Raj Nandy of New Delhi.

Dear Poet Friends, Torin Galleshaw from Charlotte NC, a Member of this Site, had requested me to compose about the Rise of Third *****. Therefore, I have commenced with the causes for its Rise in my Part One posted below. Planning to compose Part Two with ******’s Blitzkrieg campaign of Poland later. It is unfortunate that I am unable to post related Maps & Photos for better appreciation of my Readers! Such options are not available for us here! However, I have managed to post a copy with maps & photos in the E-mail ID of my friend Torin!  Kindly give comments only after reading this researched work of mine, during your spare time.  Thanking you, - Raj, New Delhi.

            STORY OF SECOND WORLD WAR – PART ONE
                            RISE OF THE THIRD *****
                                       By Raj Nandy

                                  INTRODUCTION
In this part I shall mainly deal with the causes leading to the Second World War,
Which had also created favourable conditions for the rise of Third ***** under ******.
The word ‘*****’ derives from old German word ‘rihhi’ meaning ‘realm’;  
But is also used to designate a kingdom or an empire in a broader sense.
Historically, the First ***** was the Medieval Holy Roman Empire which lasted till the end of the 19th Century.
While the Second ***** was the First German Empire from 1871 to 1918, when dynamic Otto Von Bismark had united all of Germany,
Which ended with its defeat in World War One and birth of the Weimar Republic.
The Third ***** refers to the **** German Empire under ******, Which lasted from 1933 till 1945, for twelve traumatic eventful years!
Historians opine that the ending of a war is equally important as
its beginning;
Since the causes for the start of a war is often to be found embedded in its ending!
The First World War came to an end on 28th of June 1919 as we all know.
With the signing of the Treaty at Versailles by the German Foreign Minister Hermann Muller and the ‘Big Four’.  (Britain, France, America, & Italy)
Yet it is rather ironical, that this Peace Treaty of Versailles, considered as President Woodrow Wilson’s ‘brain child’,
Had sowed the seeds of discontent resulting in the outbreak of the Second World War, and Adolf ******’s dramatic rise!

Though several causes are attributed for the outbreak of the Second World War by our Military Historians.
Let me try to summarise those causes which are considered to be more relevant.
Commencing with the harsh Treaty of Versailles, the British and French Policy of Appeasement, followed by Hyperinflation and the Great Depression of 1929, and failure of The League of Nations to maintain peace;  
Are relevant factors which collectively combined resulting in the outbreak of the devastating Second World War, scarring human memories for all time!
But not forgetting ******’s forceful and persuasive eloquence which mesmerised the Germans to rise up as a powerful Nation once again.
Since ****** promised to avenge the humiliation faced by Germany following the Treaty of Versailles,
Which was drawn up with vengeance, and dictated by the victorious Allies!

THE  ARMISTICE  AND TREATY OF VERSAILLES:    
Armistice means a truce for cessation of hostilities, which provides a breathing space for negotiating a lasting peace.
Now the Armistice ceasing the First World War was signed inside the railway carriage of the Allied Supreme Commander Marshal Foch, in the Forest of Compiegne,
On the 11th of November 1919, sixty km north of Paris, between the victorious Allies and vanquished Germany.
But in the meantime naval blockade of Germany had continued, and the German Rhineland was evacuated and partly occupied by the combined Allied troops!
Release of Allied POWs interned civilians followed subsequently; And the Reparations Clause of monetary compensation was strictly imposed on Germany!
Now, following a wide spread German Sailor’s Revolt towards the end of October 1918, Emperor Kaiser Wilhelm-II had abdicated;
And on the 9th of November Friedrich Ebert, as the new Social Democrat President of Germany, authorised his representative to sign the Compiegne Armistice.
We should remember here that this Armistice seeking cessation of hostilities did not stipulate any unconditional surrender;
And the signing of the Armistice by the German Social Democrats, was considered as ‘a stab in the back of the German army’ by majority of the Germans!
These issues get repeatedly mentioned by Adolf ****** in his eloquent speeches subsequently,
To arouse the spirit of German Nationalism, and resurgence of the ‘Master Aryan Race’ of the Germans, - in Germany!

The Versailles Treaty was signed on 28th of June 1919, exactly five years after the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand which had sparked World War One.
Let me mention few aspects of this Treaty which was detested by the Germans!
Germany lost 13% of its land, 12% of its people, 48% of its iron resources, 15% of its agricultural production, and 10% of its coal, following its implementation!
German army was reduced to 100,000 men, its Navy reduced to 36 ships with no submarines, its Air Force banned, and its union with Austria forbidden.
Now to use a Shakespearean phrase the ‘unkindest cut of all’ came in the shape of Article 231,  the ‘War Guilt Clause’ of the Versailles Treaty,
Which provided the legal basis for the payment of war reparations by Germany.
The reparation amount of 132 billion gold marks (US $33 billion) to cover the civilian damage caused during the war, now had to be paid by Germany!
Thus the humiliation, resentment, and the virtual economic strangulation following the Versailles Treaty,
Was exploited by extremist groups such as ******’s **** Party.
And in the decades to follow, ******’s Nazis would take full control of Germany!

NOTES: Following Versailles Treaty, Alsace-Lorraine captured by Germany in 1870 was returned to France. The SAAR German coalfield region was give to France for 15 yrs. Poland became independent with a corridor to the sea dividing Germany into two. Danzing, a major port in East Prussia, became a free city under the League of Nation. Finland, Lithuania, Latvia, & Czechoslovakia became independent. Industrial area of German Rhineland, forming a buffer zone between Belgium &France,was
demilitarised.

WOODROW WILSON’S  14 - POINT PEACE INITIATIVE  & THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS:
American President Wilson was an idealist and a visionary, who in a speech to the US Congress on 8th Jan 1918,
Introduced a 14 Point Charter as a platform for building global peace, based on the principles of transparency, self-determination, and Democracy.
But for the first time in US history, the Republican-led US Senate rejected this Peace Treaty, and prevented America from joining the newly created League!
The US Senate wanted to retain its sovereignty without external entanglements;
Free from the League of Nation’s political dictates in its foreign commitments!
The Irish immigrants refused to support Wilson's Fourteen Points because Wilson was concerned about stopping WWI, rather than forcing the British to set Ireland free.
Many Jews also refused to back Wilson, since he was paying too much attention to the War, and not enough to the Balfour Declaration of 02 Nov 1917, -
Which promised an Independent Jewish State with a distinct Jewish identity.

The League of Nations had emerged from Wilson’s 14 Points on the 10th Jan 1920, with its HQs at Geneva, Switzerland, but it had no peacekeeping forces those days!
The League had failed to prevent invasion of Chinese Manchuria in 1932 by Japan;
Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia in 1935; annexation of Sudetenland and Austria by Germany!
The Axis countries Germany, Italy, and Japan, withdrew from the League subsequently.
Thus the League of Nations was disbanded in 1946 officially!
But President Wilson’s ceaseless efforts for global peace did not go unrecognised,
Since on the 10th of December 1920, he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize!
While his disbanded League of Nations, as the first global humanitarian organisation,
Continued to survive in spirit with the establishment of United Nations Organisation on the 24th October, 1945.

ECONOMIC CAUSES - FOLLOWED BY THE GREAT DEPRESSION OF 1929 :
Germany emerged from the First World War with loss of 25,000 square miles of territory;
Loss of seven million inhabitants, and a staggering debt imposed by the Versailles Treaty!
The Wiemar Republic, after abdication of Emperor Kaiser Wilhelm-II  to Holland,
For the first time in German history, established a Democratic Constitution with Friedrich Ebert as its first President.
But The Republic first had to consolidate itself by squashing the Spartacist Revolt of January 1919 led by the extreme Leftists, and inspired by the Russian Bolshevik Communists!
The Freikorps, in March 1920, an Ex-Soldiers Rightist Group, tried to overthrow the Wiemar Republic with support of their Rightist allies and their own veteran troops!
This was soon followed by a Communist attempt to takeover of the Industrial Rhur;
But fortunately, all these uprisings against the Republic were effectively subdued!
But the 33 Billion Dollars of Reparations hung over the Wiemar Republic like the legendary ‘Sword of Damocles’, followed by the Great Depression of 1929;
Coupled with the ‘Policy of Appeasement’ practised by the British and the French;
Became the most important causes for ******’s expansionist ambition and his short- lived meteoric rise to fame!

GERMAN PAPER CURRENCY & HYPERINFLATION:
Gold Mark was the currency used by the German Empire from 1873 to 1914 only.
But to pay for the costs of the ongoing First World War, Germany suspended the gold standard, and decided to fund the war by Borrowings entirely,
Hoping to pay back the loans after Germany achieves Victory.
But having lost the war, and faced with a massive debt imposed by the Allies,
Exchange rate of the Mark against the US Dollar steadily devalued and declined!
Papiermark became the German currency from 04th August 1914 onward, when link between the Mark and gold reserve was abandoned,
In order to pay for the ongoing expenses of the First World War with paper marks, which was constantly being printed!
But later after the war, when the London Ultimatum of May 1921 demanded payment of war reparations in gold or in foreign currency only,
Even more paper marks got printed by the Republic to buy those foreign currency !
By December 1922 hyper-inflationary trends emerged, when the US Dollar became equivalent to 7,400 German Marks, with a 15-fold increase in the cost of living !
By the fall of 1922 when it became impossible for Germany to make further payments,
The French and Belgium armies occupied Germany’s Ruhr Valley area, its prime industrial region!
French and the Belgians hoped to extract payment in kind, but a strike by the workers of the Ruhr area their hopes belied!
The Wiemar Republic printed more paper notes to pay and support the workers of the Ruhr area,
When hyperinflation had peaked at 4,210,500,000,000 German Marks, to a US Dollar!
Paper currency having become worthless, some form of ancient barter system began to be used instead!

STABILISATION OF GERMAN ECONOMY WITH ONSET OF  THE GREAT DEPRESSION:
Following the hyperinflation Chancellor Josef Cuno’s cabinet resigned in August 1923,
When Gustav Stresemann became the new Chancellor of Germany.
Stresemann’s Government had introduced the Rentenmark as a new stable currency,
To end the hyperinflation which had plagued Wiemar Germany.  
Rentenmark was backed by real goods, agricultural land and business,
Since gold was not available in a beleaguered German economy those days!
When One Rentenmark was equivalent to One million, million, old German Mark;
While One US Dollar was equivalent to only 4.2 Rentenmarks.
Though Stresemann’s Government lasted for 100 days only, Stresemann continued to serve as the Foreign Minister in successive Coalition Governments of the Republic,
Till his death in the month of October 1929, but working for the betterment of Germany all the while!
His ‘Policy of Fulfilment’ stabilised German economy with a 200 Million Dollars loan from America under the Dawes Plan in 1924,
Which had also ensured the evacuation of France from the occupied Ruhr area, with their future reparations payments ensured.
Stresemann’s signing of the Locarno Pact in London on 1st Dec 1925 with France, Belgium, Great Britain, and Italy, was considered as his achievement and a feat!
Since it made Germany to enter the League of Nations ensuring stability and peace;
While the Noble Peace Prize was awarded to Stresemann for his efforts in 1926!
Later, the Young Plan of 1929 further reduced German reparations payment by 20%, while extending the time frame for the payments to 59 years!
But following a sudden Wall Street Stock Market Crash in late October of 1929,
The American Banks were forced to recall money from Europe and the Young Plan;.
Which created acute financial distress when unemployment soared to 33.7%  in Germany in 1931, and quickly rose to 40% during the following year!
Lausanne Conference was held in Switzerland in 1932 by Great Britain, Germany, and France, to further reduce the War Debts imposed by the Versailles Treaty.
But in Dec 1932, the US Congress had rejected this Allied War Debt Reduction Plan completely.
However, no further payments were made by Germany due to the Great Depression;
And by 1932, Germany had paid only 1/8 of the total sum required to be paid as per their pending wartime reparations!

NOTES: Rentenmark was issued on 15 October 1923 to stop the hyperinflation in Wiemeer Germany. Reichmark was the currency in Germany from 1924 to 20 June 1948 in West Germany , when it was replaced by the Deutsche Mark; but had continued in East Germany until 23 June when it was replaced by East German Mark.
During the Stresemann Years of Stability from 1924 to 1929, (prior to the onset of the Great Depression), with help of American financial aid, created more housing & production in Germany. Dada & Expressionist Art forms flourished, followed by modern architecture; also the Philosophy of Existentialism of Thomas Mann – influenced the Western culture. Paul Whiteman's Band for the first time brought in American Jazz to Germany, and Jazz signified the liberation of German youth and women folks of the younger generation generally. But the US Stock Market Crash had unfortunately ended this short lived euphoria, and as it soon became a global phenomena!                                


FAILURE OF THE WIEMAR REPUBLIC & THE GREAT DEPRESSION WHICH BENEFITED THE NAZIS:
Last Days of Wiemar Republic:
Ever since Otto Von Bismarck that ‘Man of iron and steel’, united Germany into a single Empire in the year Eighteen Hundred & Seventy One,
For the first time a Constitution for a Parliamentary Democracy was drawn up in August 1919, in the eastern German city of Wiemar.
Wiemar was the intellectual centre of Germany associated with musicians like Franz List, and writers like Goethe and Schiller.
The Wiemar Republic of Germany which had lasted from 1919 till 1933 had seen,
20 different Coalition Governments, with frequent elections and changing loyalties!
Due to a system of proportional representations, and the presence of very many political parties those days,  
No single party could obtain absolute sole majority in the Reichstag Parliament!
The longest Coalition Govt. was under Chancellor Bruning, which had lasted for only 2 years and 61 days!     (From 30 March 1930 to 30 May 1932)
Now, to understand the reasons for the failure to maintain a Democratic form of Government by the Wiemar Republic,
It becomes necessary to monitor its ‘dying gasps’ during its closing years so to speak!
Since faced with the economic depression Chancellor Bruning had worsened the unemployment situation by adopting stringent and unpopular measures!
Thereby having lost popular political support, Bruning with the approval of President Hindenburg, invoked emergency powers under Article 48, to survive his last few months and years!
During the years 1931 and 1932  it is seen, Bruning had used this Emergency Clause 44 and 66 times respectively!
Thus his so-called ‘Presidential form of Govt.’ had undermined Wiemar Democracy!
If Burning was the ‘Republic’s Undertaker’, now remains a debatable issue of History!
But Burning’s vigorous campaign made Hindenburg to get re-elected as the President;
Thereby he had removed the defeated Adolf ****** out of the Presidential race!
Therefore, later when ****** became the Chancellor on 30 Jan 1933, Bruning had very wisely fled from Germany!

Following Bruning’s resignation in May 1932 came Chancellor Papen’s ‘Cabinet of Barons’ consisting of individuals who were not members of the German Reichstag!
While in the election of July 1932 ******’s **** Party won 230 seats, making it the largest party in the Reichstag.
But ****** refused to form a coalition with Papen, because he wanted to become the Chancellor himself !
Now General von Schleicher advised President Hindenburg that the German Army,
Would not accept Papen’s use of Article 48 to remain as the Chancellor of Germany!
Therefore following Papen’s resignation, Schleicher took over on the 04th of December 1932 as the new German Chancellor.
Schleicher tried to restore a democratic form of government to get the Wiemar Republic back on its feet.
But in the ensuing political power struggle Papen wanted to take revenge on Schleicher for his removal from power and defeat.
So Papen persuaded Adolf ****** to become the Chancellor, and retain for himself the post of Vice-Chancellor.
In doing so, Papen mistakenly thought that he would be able to reign in the self-assertive Adolf ******!
Papen finally made President Hindenburg agree to his proposal, and on 30th of Jan 1933,
****** became the New Chancellor, with approval of the President!
A month later a sudden fire in the Reichstag made ****** invoke Article 48, in order to squash the suspected Left Wing Communists;
But while doing so, the Press was muzzled, and many Civil Rights of the German people were abolished, inclusive of their right of assembly and free speech!
****** acted swiftly, and by passing the Enabling Act on 23 March, 1933, armed himself  with dictatorial powers for enacting laws without the approval of the Reichstag whenever necessary!
Thereby ****** threw Democracy to History’s wasteland most unfortunately!
Following the death of Hindenburg on 29 June 1934, ****** combined the powers of the President and the Chancellor, and became known as the FUHRER!
Historians generally agree the Enabling Act of 1933, as the date for establishment of The German Third *****.

THE POLICY OF APPEASEMENT AND GERMAN AGGRESSION:
The horrors of trench warfare with the rattling of machine guns and bursting of poisonous nerve gas shells,
Even after 20 years remained fresh, in the minds of all World War One participants!
Therefore, it was natural for British and French Prime Ministers Neville Chamberlain and Edouard Daladier initially,
To grant political and material concessions to an aggressive Germany, for the sake of peace and stability.
Thus the diplomatic stance of Appeasement between 1935 and 1939 followed by the French and the British, was mainly to avoid another dangerous armed conflict!
But the trusting Mr. Chamberlain had underestimated ******, who had served in the German Army as a Corporal, winning the Iron Cross during the last Great War!
****** was not afraid of war, but wanted to avenge the Treaty of Versailles and its punitive dictated peace;
And also establish for the superior German Aryan race a lasting Third *****!
Therefore, having consolidated his power as the Fuhrer along with his trusted **** Party cronies, he withdrew from the League of Nations in October 1933.
Introduced conscription in March 1935 in Germany, and embarked on a mission to rebuild a new modernised German Army for combat on land, air, and sea!
In March 1936, in another open violation of the Versailles Treaty, ****** re-occupied the demilitarised Rhineland, followed by a Treaty of Alliance with Japan and Italy.
The much desired Anschluss (or merger) with Austria, the country of birth of ******,
Saw the German Army in March 1938, triumphantly and peacefully marching into Vienna!
Now with the Munich Conference of 19 September 1938, this Policy of Appeasement is said to have reached its climatic peak!
The Sudetenland area, consisted of 3 million Germans were made
to join Czechoslovakia when the frontiers were drawn in 1918-19,
Much against the wishes of the Germans!
When ****** wanted to annex this Sudetenland area, Britain, France, Germany and Italy, met at Munich to diffuse an explosive situation peacefully.
It was agreed at Munich that once Sudetenland joins Germany, ****** will not invade Czechoslovakia and honour the terms of peace.
But on 15th March 1939, in violation of the Munich Agreement, ******’s army invade and occupied Czechoslovakia, thereby openly flouting the Policy of Appeasement!

NOTES: ******’s desire for ‘LEBENSRAUM’ or ‘increase of living space’ for the Germans, commenced with his ‘Border Wars’, which soon turned into a Global War because of the ‘appeasement policy’ of the Allies. ****** had secured his Eastern Front with a treaty with the Stalin, since fighting on two fronts would have been very difficult for the Germans.

Now when ******’s army invaded Poland on 1st of September 1939, it became ‘the last straw on the camel’s back’ for the Western Allies!
Committed to the Anglo-Polish Defence Pact of 25 August, 1939, both Britain and France declared war on Germany,
Which I propose to narrate in Part Two of my Second World War Story.  
The Policy of Appeasement no doubt gave some time for Britain, to regain its depleted military strength,  but Adolf ****** had viewed it as a sign of weakness!
With Russia and America initially as non-participants, ****** became more confident and arrogant!
Thereby turning his border wars into a global conflagration lasting six long years.
When the use of advanced technology, resulted in greater loss and casualties;  
Which was followed by the holocaust and unprecedented human suffering!
I would like to conclude my present narration with a poem by English soldier-poet Seigfried Sassoon, who participated in the First World War on the Western Front.

DREAMERS  -  by Siegfried Sassoon
Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land,
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal ****** with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with ***** and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.
…………………………………………………………………………
Thanks for reading patiently, from Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
  *ALL COPYRIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY

Growling and hissing, a storm formed along the road, portending the merging of the chaos that had been gripping our minds for months.  This day, this type of day, we could have dreamed up in the novel of our love affair.  The conversation along our drive into the country was as full and ***** as all other tête-à-têtes shared in our two months together.  We were never at a loss for words and his conversation had been more educated than the older men I had dated since the divorce.  I was forever astonished at him and with him.  

The first time I met him, I was sitting behind my desk and planning for another monotonous day of office politics and all the drama connected.  Lost in thought, I sipped coffee and read emails until, there was - him.  He opened my office door with such fervor and drama, I knew someone had just entered into my life that would leave me forever changed, and I welcomed it.  A mess of auburn hair, neither combed nor styled and yet quite fitting, haloed around his head and gave the visage of an angel.  He had a freckled nose and cheeks with blue eyes staring from behind all that wildness and they were the only calming feature about him.  I turned my head and grimaced a bit, “how dare someone charge into my office as if to own it”.  “How can I help you?” made its way from my lips with a bit of a sigh.  And he smiled, that smile which would make his face even younger and more deceptively angelic.  

“Hello” danced off his lips and in two syllables was able to sound singsong and my anger soon turned to anticipation.  He introduced himself as Parker and explained his new position as Junior Editor.  He went on to say someone instructed him to introduce himself to me since I was Senior Project Manager for the organization.  His fervent entrance into my office had sent a gush of wind that disheveled my tidy desk and his wide blue eyes looked around at the chaos he had rendered.  He seemed unable to offer apologies, and I soon learned this was his way.  His confident facade prevented admission of mistakes and the word “sorry” could not escape the tightness of his will to be correct.  This was my lover’s way and it was the structure built that only wrecking ***** could destroy.

As is expected of me, I extended my hand to welcome him, overmuch aware of my grip and strength in presenting my hand, I felt the need to dominate the grip.  I was a woman in a senior position inside the male dominated echelon of upper management.  I took his hand and with rehearsed quickness attempted to demonstrate my dominance, my superiority.   It was then, the first time I saw a devil behind his angelic face and I remember my expression churned up my secret thoughts.  He saw my eyes searching those thoughts and delight shone from his blue eyes like cold fire and I was burned.   Our hands soon contorted into a dance of dominance with fingers twisting as if in a finger shadow play.  No time for games or plays for control, I simply took the shake he offered and turned towards my coffee, my drama, my emails and without looking at him welcomed him again and gave a wave of dismissal.  He greeted my brush-off with a laugh and made his way to the chair in front of my desk.  He was tall and the light from behind silhouetted his broad shoulders and upright posture.  He was confident and sure.  His clothes were expensive, well-tailored and not at all the measure for his age.  He had a style about him and I believe it came as naturally to him as did the confidence in which he clothed himself.

I wanted to be angry at his overconfidence, his interruption, his disregard.  I was, instead, amused but annoyed.  He sensed he was beginning to irritate me and it seemed to delight him.  He would speak without taking a breath, eager to finish his thoughts, aware perhaps that time could steal the moment away and he would forever wonder.  He spoke with an accent I did not fully recognize and attempted to invite me to lunch or even coffee.  My lover was bold.  

I was succeeding in this corporate world, my world.  I was not ready to lose my focus for a moment alone with the delightful creature staring back at me, awaiting the “yes” he expected would be my answer.  He was a man who did not accept the “no’s”.    He would get what he wanted and would wait in predator mode until his prey was wounded, weak, ready.  He was not a predator in the malevolent sense, more in the need for survival mentality.  He would lift the wounded and weak above the limits of their afflictions and a “yes” would flow from their lips in fond gratitude.  Today I was not a “yes” and it did not feel like a final answer.  Somehow, I knew one day I would be naked with this man, my lover.  I knew I would take him inside me, and he would show me how to love in ways I had never known.  The “no’ and the explanations of the “no” exuded from my lips, and I could see him grow even more eager to know me.  He would learn the stories of my life from rumors and talk.  He would learn of my divorce, of the men I dated with expensive homes and cars.  He would hear about the occasional woman who would occupy my bed.   I had wished all of it to be true but only the divorce was correct.  I was not exceptional or exciting.  I was driven and focused.  

He stood there hearing my “no” with the sun behind him igniting the fire in his hair with his shoulders pinned back exposing his sculpted chest.  He stood there and allowed the silence after my rejection to hover the room, and there it was.  We locked eyes, and neither could emancipate from the other.  I wondered who he was and what he looked like naked in the morning with his disheveled hair, and we stared, locked in our gaze until my phone rang signaling the end of round one.  

Wrapped in my shawl, I moved between sipping coffee, as was my usual, and typing on my laptop.  He was behind me in the cabin.  I felt him approaching and knew he would quickly whisk me away from the overwhelming din of office emails and calls.  His presence behind me now was no longer disquieting but natural.  

The cabin had been his grandfathers and he had a noticeable pride about it when showing me through the door and gateway to his childhood memories.  He had a smile on his face I had never seen.  I delighted in how young it made his face appear, almost as if the childhood memories possessed him and he became the blithe youth here with his grandfather.  


It was fall at the cabin and the smell of musk and rotting leaves and ozone from the storm, filled the cabin and each deep breath was taking in a memory from my youth.   I was happy to be here with him and yet afraid.  Two months we flirted and touched over our shared lunches, eager to get inside each other physically, mentally.  The office was replete with stories of the happenings between the older woman executive and the younger up and coming man, how he must be using her to advance his career and how she was using him to heal the wounds of her recent divorce.  We heard these stories and watched them grow to the point we ended our touching, our flirting.  Soon the denial of our feelings and time apart turned to foreplay.  Soon there were stares across conference rooms, perceptive smiles as we crossed paths.  The total of it led us to this moment, to time alone together for the first time, this time.  

Fall in the country was the vangaurd to a glorious death.  The earth would explode with color announcing its final breath and moment upon the stage and we had arrived during the final bow and curtain call.  Trees draped in gold - and red - and orange heralded the fire to come and we too were ready to pour forth in glorious blaze and inferno.  During the entire ride into the country an ironical mist of dew and rain dotted the windshield as if nature attempted to douse the desires clawing to escape in each other’s arms.  There was a devil sitting next to me and I had to smile as his auburn hair blended so naturally with the landscape.  I was obviously lost in thought and he looked at me and asked if I was okay.  Him next to me, him crookedly smiling at me.  

“It’s nothing.  It’s just nice to see you in your element.”  My replay was short but my heart was beating so hard I was almost afraid he could see it bouncing behind my blouse, so I began to cover up but was met with his hand before I even reached the edge of my coat.  

“No.  I want to see you.”  His voice was soft but demanding and strong.  Often there were hints of a struggle for power between us.  His youth and position within the company prevented me from accepting his seriousness and his face would ***** into a grimace.  I never gave it much thought other than a bit of a nuisance.  His hand led mine to my lap, and I expected him to hold it, but he let go with a smile.  I enjoyed his show of power but refused to reveal a glint of it for fear I would lose the respect and control necessary over a subordinate.

Soon the cabin filled with the sounds of rain and thunder and as I stared out the window jealous of the drops of rain and their randomness, he touched my shoulder and looked down at me with his eyes bluer than wild lupine.  I smiled a painful smile and he knew I was overthinking the moment.  Taking my hand, he brought me to his chest and into his arms, arms that would embrace all of me and at times felt as if they could wrap around me twice.  I placed my head on his chest and began to reach for his belt.  The *** I had known was always routine.  This was expected, that was not allowed.  I fell into that routine naturally and was happy to oblige his needs in order to meet mine.  He kissed my forehead and still holding one hand, led me to the door of the cabin.  “What are we do…”  He stopped me with a single “shhh” from his lips.  I followed him and felt myself shiver.  I was not sure if I was shivering in fear or from the nip of fall air.  

“Don’t be afraid.  You have nothing to fear from me.  There’s no need to shiver my little poppet.”  He stepped back from me and stared as if I were a tiny bird in need of nestling back into its home.  “I’ve never seen you afraid.”  He touched my cheek and I felt so small and helpless, lost from home, and he was the only way back.  With a smile he took my hand and led me outside to the rain, lifting his face and savoring the drops bouncing off his cheeks.  

“W..w..what are you doing?”  I was trembling now and wondered if I had misjudged this man and he was in fact a lunatic ready to strangle me to my death.  My silk blouse, now drenched, clung to my ******* exposing an imprint of lace from my bra.  He reached for my shawl and pulled it off my shoulders.  He was looking at me so lovingly my body and mind calmed and I was once again in the moment.  Our moment.  This moment.  

His face, stern now, official, his mouth opening with such deliberateness that I was sure he had been in this situation before.  Once again my mind wanted to race to thoughts of not being good enough or that I was too old or too plain.  His voice pierced my thoughts and brought me to attention.  “There will be no talking unless I tell you to.  Nod if you understand”

My mind wanted to slap him with reminders of my superiority to him at work, how he was MY subordinate and how dare he.  My mouth would not open and my head began to nod in understanding.  My body and mind were bending to his will and acting upon his orders.  Shivering gave way to shaking now and I wanted to run to the warmth of the cabin and watch the fire burn the logs to a black crisp and wake up in his arms naked and giggling.  

Having seen my compliant nod, he began to speak.  “Undress.”  One word.  One word in response to the shaking mess of a woman standing in the rain, cold and afraid.  My hands were barely able to form the necessary movements to reach for the top button of my blouse.  I did not want to fail him or appear as if I were unfamiliar with tales of ***** men overpowering and having their way with a willing lover.  My fingers moved quickly now, wanting to end the scene and move on to the *******.  He stared.  He did not blink.  He did not nod or move.  He was enjoying every subtlety of me.  He was pleased.   I was a willing participant in his fantasy.  Nothing made me happier than to please him.  I began to feel hot and something inside me broke.  Was it my will, my pride, my fears?  I was not sure, but I felt alive.  Every thirsty pore of my skin opened up and lapped at the rain so very eager to feel it on my skin and the randomness of the drops was no longer something I envied but something in which I participated.  

My hands began to tug my blouse free from my skirt and the wet silk now draped over my hips like curtains, revealing the curves I was so painfully aware of hiding to keep anyone from noticing my *** and concentrate upon my words and actions.  I knew now I had one button remaining before I would, for the first time, display myself to him.  He did not flinch, rather, he maintained his stare and for a second I pleaded to him with my eyes not to expect me to do this.  He was resolute.  I spread open the soft, wet cloth and began to drape it off my shoulders.  I let it slide from my wrists, then fingertips, then to the ground blissfully unconcerned that my Hermes blouse was now draped over wet grass and mud.  

I looked down at my skin dripping and alive with goosebumps.  I had bought this bra in anticipation of this moment, in fear of this moment.  White lace bra and perfectly matched ******* were demonstrative of my control over even the small details.  My skirt was loose and heavy with the rain.  It was low on my waist and lay just below the navel leaving me the most exposed I had ever been with him.  I reached to touch the button on the back of my skirt.  Undone, I slipped my fingers along with the zipper feeling each click of the tiny teeth holding together the disguise of a powerful woman.  My hands traced the banded edge of the skirt pushing it over my hips allowing it to fall to the ground.  

His face looked stern but pleased, stoic and fixed.  I was in my bra, ******* and stilettos now.  I began to reach for the hinged part of my bra when he stopped me.  “No.  Stop.” He walked over to me.  He was close now and I was so cold I could feel heat from his body.  I wanted to kiss his lips, his full lips, but I did not move.  I knew now the rules and I would do only what was asked of me.  I stood rigid with no flinching.  I waited for any words that would pass from lips to ear.  He did not speak but leaned into me and reached over my right shoulder undoing the chignon in my hair.  He draped my shoulders with strands of liquid filament.  He took his time there, placing each strand in the exact order in which he was pleased.  With two steps back, he looked at my wet hair with the deliberate strands, as if he had created a masterpiece and for a moment I was unsure if the artwork he saw was me or his work.  

“Now be still.  Allow me to touch you, to admire you, my beautiful Moira.”  When he said my name even after these two months, he had the ability of saying it as if he were speaking it in serenade and for the first time.  He moved his hands to my back and unlinked my bra, one hook at a time with such dexterity I knew he must be a professional at *******.  He, who was to be my first professional lover.  He slid both straps off my shoulders, then taking my hands towards my abdomen, he slid the straps forward on my arms.  Lifting my hands, he demanded I keep them out and straight.  Me, the student to the professional, complied without question.  He bound my wrists with the lace bra, the bra I had bought just to please him, then lifted my arms above my head.  “You will keep your hands up until I tell you to move.”

I had become his toy.  I knew in this moment, I no longer existed for me, I was his, completely and entirely, and I abandoned myself to the rain, to the cold, to his gaze, realizing that surrendering to his urges strengthened me.  He turned and walked away.  He took a seat in an Adirondack chair and even it looked small in his presence.  “On your elbows and knees,” he spoke matter-of-factly.  Just five minutes ago, the struggle inside me to have the appearance of strength, would have denied me this happiness, this happiness to be free in his command.  “Now crawl to me, please.  Slowly.”

I did not care to be in the mud.  I wanted it.  I wanted to please him.  First to my knees, leaving an indention in the clay, then awkwardly at first, onto my elbows with my hands still tied at the wrist.  Crawling on my elbows, my back was arched with my waist higher than my head, giving him a view of the thong I had chosen only for this moment, my succeeding moment.  My position felt ungainly.  I looked to his face for approval.  “No.  You cannot look at me”, he commanded.  For a moment I felt I had lost his approval and self-doubt harried my brain.  My will to please was resolute.  I faced the ground, once again aware of the randomness of nature, the power of nature, how things in nature will do as they are told.  The reed is told to bend.  It does.  It does not question why but responds in its way.  Rivers do not question why they are shaped.  They just continue with powerful current.  I was the reed.  I was the river.  I did not question.

Face towards the ground, I could see the mud forming on my body, molding to my shape then rinsing with the rain.  It repeated.  Mud.  Rain.  Mud.  Rain.  This was the cadence to my crawl.  I arrived at his knees and waited there, a dog eager for a command from its master.  I was content to watch the rain beat ripples around his feet, splashing and shining his shoes with glossy drops.  “I cannot love you”, I thought to myself, “this is forbidden”.  “Being here in this moment, is forbidden.” We would have this moment.  Yes.  We could create this memory and think back on it in fondness and with both heaviness and happiness.  I would remember my young lover, my professional lover.  He would remember the obedient executive on her knees.  I would not regret our moment.  I would some day write it all down in my journal and press the pen deep into the paper.  It had to be etched, those words, my words, this memory.

His hand below my chin, lifted my gaze to his and he smiled, that smile, his smile, the smile that was like nature to my body, and I did not ask why.  I was a river being formed.  “You are so beautiful.  All of you.  Your skin so soft and pale.  Your eyes moving from fear to acceptance.  I see now you want to please me and I want you to know that I want to make you happy.  I want to be your lover.  I want to taste your lips kissed with rain and feel your shivering body pulled against me.  You are safe.  I will not hurt you.  Poppet.  I love you.  I have for awhile now, and I think you know it.  You, my wise, wise Moira.”  He lifted me up and for a moment pulled my body towards him burying his face in my abdomen.  He lingered there.  I felt how soft his red tufts of hair were and how soft his words were against my ears.  I loved him too.  Genuinely.  Profoundly.  I was afraid.

He inhaled deeply, there against my stomach, as if he were breathing in my essence.  I felt his breath turn from warm to cold against me as it mixed with rain.  He stretched his arms and moved my body backwards as he extended until I was a foot away from him.  “I would very much like to undress you, poppet.  I’ve been imagining it, aching for it.  I want to see all of you, naked and on display.”  He touched my abdomen with the tips of his fingers, as if afraid the pale china of my skin would disintegrate into a misty dream.  I relished it, the touch of him against parts of me he had not known.  I was always able to keep him at a distance, physically.  His hands traced the edge of my *******.  He moved slowly, and I knew he was wanting to etch this memory into his journal.  Nothing less than ink pressed hard to paper would release this memory to time.  His placed his hands on my hips and spun me around, my thong lining up with his gaze.  “Bend over.”  His voice from sweet to demanding again.

My hands were still bound, and I stumbled at first.  He seemed not to notice or to care, so I arched my back and pushed myself outward and into his view.  I felt his hands move from my thighs to my hips as gentle as summer winds that in their seductiveness turn our faces towards the impact.  I was in my forties and unsure how I would compare to the twenty-year-old’s he was known to date.  The gossip left nothing to imagination and everything to speculation.  My mind had conjured images of him, this professional lover, inside the firm thighs of a youthful companion.  Thoughts transformed to pleasure as the nature that was his hands took dominance over the thin lace that hid the only piece of me left unseen.  I became art in his hands, marble statue, exquisite with textures and curves wanting to be touched.  

The lace scraped my skin as he slid the *******, wet and splashed with earth, over the expanse of my hips and down to the ground at my ankles.  “Step out of them.”  He helped free my ankles, and I saw the delicate lace become one with the earth as the rain beat it into the mud.  This was freedom.  This was me with nature, me with my lover.  I was the reed and he was the wind.  

I was keenly aware of his eyes fixated on the valley of my mound, how my cheeks spread just enough to give hints of the pinkest of my flesh, now swollen and ripe.  “Turn around.”  I heard his voice and could tell the bombardment of rain was making it difficult to speak.  

I turned and began to ***** my body when I felt his hand on my back.  “No, poppet.  You must stay this way until I say stand.”  My body ached to be touched by him, by more than fingers and hands, but this, the anticipation, the wanting of it all, this was the skill of a professional lover.  I saw the earth drowned with a thick layer of rain now, and my shoes made splatters and ripples as I turned towards him.  I was cold now, too cold, unaware cold, numb in my cold.  I was happy to feel it.  I had for too long hid from rain, this glorious rain.  Now, I was one with the rain.  I was the river coursing its path as commanded by nature.  

He took my hands and untied them.  I watched the entire progression of it and I felt his presence now even more.  My hands were free, and I stared at my shoes and his shoes.  I was so small in his presence.  “Stand for me, poppet.”  His voice diffused through the rain and seemed softer now.  I stood there in my nakedness and he delighted in it.  My lover was not afraid and moved his head along with his eyes.  It was easy to know where upon my body his gaze had landed.  He seemed to linger the most on my face, and I thought how odd it was as most men concentrated on my ******* or mound.  My lover was different.  My lover was professional.

“Poppet, I want you to remove my shirt, but you will not toss it to the ground.  You will place it on the chair.  Nod if you understand me.”  He knew I understood but was confirming I was still in the moment and willing.  I obliged him with a nod and without looking at his face, began to unbutton each dot from its hole until he was shirtless before me.  His chest was firm and hairless and dotted with unobtrusive freckles as random as the rain.  I was delighted.  He was beautiful.  My lover was beautiful.

He placed one hand on my head, the other on my shoulder.  “On your knees for me, poppet.”  My knees once again bent for him, and I knelt in the rain, the thick rain and saw my knees again molded in the mud and earth.  I was unsure now.  Years had passed since I had taken a man inside my mouth.  I felt panic, like the river, run a course through me and I started to turn away.  But I was resolute.  “I will make him happy in all things this day” rang in my ears like a mantra.  I watched as he undid his belt and felt it as he wrapped it around my neck two times and pulled the loose end until it was taut but not constricted against my skin.  I was his.  I was the pet and he was the master.  It was official to me now in this symbol.  I was leashed and about to be tamed.  My lover was going to teach me his skill.  I was delighted.

I watched him free the one button on his pants and move to the patterned teeth of the zipper.  He rested his pants on his hips and pulled free the thing, that thing, the thing I was craving.  The thing I would take inside me, deep inside wherever my master wanted it.  I was the river.  

He was not large, not small, but thick, surprisingly thick, he was swollen and vascular.  I studied the curve of it.  The tip, the head.  I watched his hand grip it and move it towards my lips.  I opened my mouth and took him inside me.  He moved his hands to the sides of my head and began to direct me in the movement he needed from me.  I studied the thrusts and followed.  I moved my tongue, my eager tongue, in unison with the rain and percussion of the drops.  I slid him deep inside me devouring and savoring the taste of him.  The taste of my lover was satisfying, and I wanted to bring him to completion there in that moment.

We stayed in the rhythm, with the rain, both lost to the moment.  He stopped his ****** and lifted my chin.  “Moira.  My poppet.”  He led me to my feet and gave his crooked smile to me.  He gave me his smile in that moment, in that second, his smile was mine.  

“I love you”, I whispered, unsure he heard me.  He lifted me like a child and carried my nakedness to the bed.  He placed me there, like a doll.  He contemplated my skin in the light of the fire.  My lover the wind.  My lover the water.  

He was soon naked and drops of rain lit up on his body like little mirrors and I could see images of the room and myself reflected in them.  He removed the belt from my neck.  “We won’t need this.  In this moment, you know you are mine.  You know I am yours.”  We both wrapped our arms around the other, and I felt his skin on mine.  His body was hard and moved in perfect form with each muscle flinching the way it should, each squeeze and release in harmony with the other.  My pale, soft skin was beautiful contrast to his and was yin and yang.  He felt hard and long inside me, so engorged each vein touched the inside of me in a different fashion.  We each sealed our mouth on the other unable to drink as deeply as we wanted.  We were in our moment, this moment.  Alive in the seconds that passed to hours.  We were ready to etch ink on the pages telling of how I was the reed and he was the wind and on this day, I did not ask why, I only did as was I was told.

Eve of Holi

A spring eve that’s all different from others
Zephyrs blowing away the leaves
Orange sky adding the flavours
Blooming flowers nodding in a rhythm
So Ironical is nature of this evening
That all these beauties act as ornaments of Kali


On a normal evening man would work
They would work appraising weather
They know it will not last long, they enjoy
Today they as if ignore it, of morning celebrations

Morning is gayest morning of the year
Every reason to see every man
Mankind being unanimous
Evening on contrary balancing it to a usual day


An unexplainable soundlessness, vacuum of thoughts
A day depicting environment without men on work
Streets still hold colours on their chest
But this colour no more is a sign of happiness


People meet each other, everyone has a smile
But that doesn’t match with nature suit
There smiles have scope within its sight
Body of people walking on street enjoy zephyr
Their mind stay startled of unusual quietness


Standing on my entrance, I observe
A swinging litchi tree, missing sound of saw mill
Smiling flowers, orange cloudy sky
Empty streets, parked wagons, and utterly silence

I adore my country.

Sometimes enough to sacrifice its own(?)

i want you to beat me up
real bad
please please let me bleed completely
before infancy clots at the back of my mind
don't wait for me to be tired
break me all at once
grind my feelings into a powdery mess
so that when someone enters our bedroom they slip on the floor and see a stretch mark-ed ceiling
to not know pain but just how ironical numbness is
                      and then hug me
like you would a voodoo soft toy
with the scratched leather wings
of a bewitched witch who has seen it all sober
but still can't tell a sheep's wool from snakeskin
caress my dilapidated knees
without once telling me to stand up on my own or for myself
all i want from you is
to **** me at dawn
i'll know that i was loved
enough or.... at least.

Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls

Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards

Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain

Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away

Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery

Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend

Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls

Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways

Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face

Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty

A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive

Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011

I. The lifespan of a pumpkin is incredibly short. Considering the rapid pace in which a pumpkin goes from flower to fruition, it is quite literally a blink of an eye. And there is no nobility in a pumpkin death. No, it is a long and grueling process. From the beginning, the pumpkin patch is like Wall Street, 1763. Being poked and prodded, weighed, gawked at and compared to my brothers and sisters. I was chosen earlier than the rest for my robust size, even ridges, and vivid colour. I remember being severed from the vine- I know that humans don’t remember being cut from the umbilical cord, but it’s the only human experience I can compare it to. I imagine that if I had lungs I would scream or eyes I would cry, but I suppose the lack of these organs is what makes it so easy for humans to humiliate us as they do. We have no voice of our own- and who would stand up for us? Possibly vegans, but I digress.
Once inside the human home, I’m set on a “tiled countertop,” as they call it. I’m not sure what that is exactly, but it’s polished and hard and artificial. The coldness of it makes my skin stiffen. And then, as if overcome by brain fever, the smaller humans rush about their living space grabbing up “newspapers” and “paper towels” (no doubt made from abused trees) and just as I had feared, knives. More polished coldness. I know what is to come- I’ve heard the cautionary tales. When my siblings and I hung on the vine as buds, we’d swap horror stories. Of course, we didn’t think that they were real then. Though we had seen older pumpkins snatched up, we were too young to understand. And now that I know it’s all true, my fear isn’t for myself but for my kin. I know that it isn’t normal for humans to hope for their loved ones to rot, but it is for pumpkins. I hope that they will grow old, old, old until the day comes that they quietly fall off the vine and become food for the animals and the soil and their seeds impregnate the earth. And though I may be faced with this violent fate, I am not going to be afraid. I shall not sweat, nor make my skin tough to their blades. No, I will be soft as butter and dry as the sky. As the humans pick up their tools of operation and discuss what kinds of sweet treats they’ll be making with my “guts,” I yield to the steel and dare them to do their worst…

II. They’re finished now, and I’ve been gutted to within an inch of my life. My insides are piled in a white bowl beside me, my seeds rest on a tin sheet, dried of juice and covered in salt. Their skin is transparent and flaky like fish scales and the flesh underneath is toasted brown. They baked my babies! They baked my babies and now they’re popping them into their pudgy, glistening mouths like the giant who used bones to bake his bread. It occurs to me that I can see more of the room than I originally could. It makes sense… now that half my skin is gone that I should have a clearer view of the world. The oldest human walks over to the small ones.
“What did you make guys?” she asks.
“A face!” they exclaim. Was my original face not good enough?
At this point I catch a glimpse of the “face” that is being discussed. Behind the humans is a painted forest locked in by a sheet of glass. On the spotless surface I see my reflection- my smooth, rounded skin has become a hideously comical mask. Two triangles and a semicircle make up this face, the mouth being a jaunty one-toothed smile, a sweet ironical touch. A hanging man with a grin. A tiny white candle has been lowered into my hollowed out stomach and lit. The flame burns my core and scorches my skin in some places to a charcoal black.
My consciousness is sliding around now… from the kitchen to the pumpkin patch and back again… The fire in my belly has dulled to a pleasant burn… maybe because I’m so cold and now I’ve gotten colder… they’ve taken me outside… placed me on an artificial hay bale… more children appear with plastic replicas of me dangling from their polyester-draped arms… they grin and their smiles match the “pumpkins’” smiles on their arms, match mine… this is all too hilarious…
“Trick or treat!”

There has been a lot of talk going around on face-book and other social networking sites about how girls these days are becoming shameless and have no hesitation in showing of their bra straps from under their tops or wear hot pants in the public or go out partying till late at night. Why are girls being subjected to such comments and derogatory accusations that they are themselves responsible for being *****? No girl in this world would like to be *****. It is not their choice. They are forced to succumb to such untoward actions of men. Women are abducted and ***** whether be it at night or in sheer daylight. They are being made victims of allegations that it is because of their short clothes, their late night partying and the new WESTERN culture that men are aroused and hence are compelled to fall for such repulsive man-oeuvres. People generally call these, self-created problems by women.

Today, India is trying to emulate the WESTERN countries in every aspect. There is a lot of heat beating around the education system being followed by one of the biggest universities in the country as to whether to follow the footsteps of the WEST or not. Be it in the areas of education, fashion, ideals India is keeping up with the affluence of the west. Nowadays, India is seen as a modern country but one of the things that is keeping it down from becoming one of the developed countries is the excessive crime rate especially the brutality against the women of the country. Despite the increasing feminism in the country, women are being victimized almost daily. Irrespective of the efforts by the government to protect the women of this country, men don’t seem to adhere to the consequences.
It is so ironical, that in one of the biggest democratic country of the world where freedom of speech is a constitutional right given to all citizens, women, who are considered to be the “DEVI” and are given such importance and high stature, their voices are being muted when raised to protest against something evil happening to them.  Power and money play such important role in diminishing such evil deeds but only in the favor of men. Just for the sake of saying, men and women are considered equal but when it comes to the actual application of such laws, women are always pushed back.
Coming back to the point, women are not ***** because of the clothes they wear, women of all ages wear short clothes outside of India, then why is it only in India that women are ***** brutally and then blamed for the same. It is not the dressing sense of women that is the main rationale for women being *****, instead it is the mentality of men who cannot keep their junk in their pants after seeing a pretty girl/woman either wearing a short dress or a sari. Their testosterone level spikes up immediately when they see a woman irrespective of their age. If the clothes girls wear was the sole reason for women being *****, then what in god’s name explains the brutality against 3 yr old? ****** 3 yr old or even old women is just an act of shame and satisfaction for men.
Both men and women blame women for the disgusting act of ****. Being someone from the same ***, there are women who blame girls these days and also point a figure at their character when it comes to being assaulted. It is not like we roam around in bikinis or thongs in public; it is just a strap, a bra strap like any other strap of any other clothing like a tank top or camisole. Why should women always sacrifice and give away their wish of wearing what they want, dressing up how they like, and looking pretty? On one hand we are criticized for wearing such short clothes on the other hand we ourselves pity the women living in countries like Saudi Arabia, Dubai, where women are supposed to be covered from head to toe. Our own national dress being as elegant it is, wearing a sari also involves obvious visibility of one’s stomach. But, that is not an issue because it is our national dress. A woman wearing deep neck suites and blouses is not a cause for problem since they are our cultural dresses. Our culture, our values don’t teach us to characterize women on the basis of clothes they wear, a women wearing a sari is equally vulnerable of being a victim of a man’s ****** arousal as is a normal college going girl wearing shorts and spaghetti.
It is in the head of the male gentry, that their unfulfilled ****** needs lead to such disgraceful acts. If in India men are allowed to wear boxers and go out, or no body points a finger at them when they wear hipster jeans and roam around in public showing half of their underpants, then why is it that girls/women are subjected to such carping by the society.  
The convention that “all men are dogs” or “all men are the same” does not apply here. Because of some men, who have no control over themselves and are the culprits behind the discreditable the whole *** is seen as obnoxious people. Even in this world of crime there are men/boys who are decent and respect women be it a 3 yr old infant or an 80 yr old lady. Due to certain men, even such decent men have to go through the same amount of shame and abomination from women.
Our government has taken a few steps In favor of women’s safety by launching fast track courts and by implementing the penal code but the government alone cannot protect us. One of the articles said, “what if the government has banned the use of pepper spray, the red chilli powder used in the kitchen should be brought out of the four walls of the house and put to some greater use.” I totally agree with this comment, so what, if pepper spray is banned, carry chilli powder, carry a mini knife in your purse but just to be used for self-defense, go and take self-defense classes, learn various forms of martial art. Why sit at home and wait for the government to take some actions for our safety. India is a free country, do it yourself. Protect yourself. Save yourself from flagrant men who indulge in ****. Wear what you want, party all you want, make this country safe for yourself and other women. Take a step out of the house, do your thing fearlessly.

Can we believe -- by an effort
comfort our hearts:
it is not waste all this,
not placed here in disgust,
street after street,
each patterned alike,
no grace to lighten
a single house of the hundred
crowded into one garden-space.

Crowded -- can we believe,
not in utter disgust,
in ironical play --
but the maker of cities grew faint
with the beauty of temple
and space before temple,
arch upon perfect arch,
of pillars and corridors that led out
to strange court-yards and porches
where sun-light stamped
hyacinth-shadows
black on the pavement.

That the maker of cities grew faint
with the splendour of palaces,
paused while the incense-flowers
from the incense-trees
dropped on the marble-walk,
thought anew, fashioned this --
street after street alike.

For alas,
he had crowded the city so full
that men could not grasp beauty,
beauty was over them,
through them, about them,
no crevice unpacked with the honey,
rare, measureless.

So he built a new city,
ah can we believe, not ironically
but for new splendour
constructed new people
to lift through slow growth
to a beauty unrivalled yet --
and created new cells,
hideous first, hideous now --
spread larve across them,
not honey but seething life.

And in these dark cells,
packed street after street,
souls live, hideous yet --
O disfigured, defaced,
with no trace of the beauty
men once held so light.

Can we think a few old cells
were left -- we are left --
grains of honey,
old dust of stray pollen
dull on our torn wings,
we are left to recall the old streets?

Is our task the less sweet
that the larve still sleep in their cells?
Or crawl out to attack our frail strength:
You are useless. We live.
We await great events.
We are spread through this earth.
We protect our strong race.
You are useless.
Your cell takes the place
of our young future strength.

Though they sleep or wake to torment
and wish to displace our old cells --
thin rare gold --
that their larve grow fat --
is our task the less sweet?

Though we wander about,
find no honey of flowers in this waste,
is our task the less sweet --
who recall the old splendour,
await the new beauty of cities?

The city is peopled
with spirits, not ghosts, O my love:

Though they crowded between
and usurped the kiss of my mouth
their breath was your gift,
their beauty, your life.

Days go with you and bid goodbye
Hours slide down and die
And drape down
The innocence of the Noun!

With the experience of Adverbs
Of place, time and frequency, the Verbs
Replace the endearing use of Nouns
(Slowly moving from lisping sounds )
To the stable use of personal Pronouns!

Individuality stands alone keeping the Subject alone
Sometimes with a defiant adolescent tone
Distractions, doubts in the use of Determiners
A shaky ground for the beginners!

Disagreement with the Subject-Verb agreement begins
Early during this period and lurks within, and at times springs
With the Nouns like mathematics, rhetorics and news
Without any tension to meddle in don’ts and dos!

What I wish to say in a few sentences
Is not enough about life’s infinite time and tenses!
To deconstruct the grammar of growing up is not enough
As adolescence is a diamond in the rough;

It is a living discourse; both simple and tough
Ironical, unpredictable, surprising, puzzling stuff
Needs patience, pardon, perseverance and fun
To handle its substance for every daughter and son!

Hello, allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Jocund, The Gardener.
Living lucid, a fellow mind traveler.

That’s kind of like a chill Childe wanderer
Of the flowing forest floor,
Feathered cotton or greening words
On the wind unravel-er;
Gone’a’wandering in untraveled soils,
A seed settler.

Tragedy left my face sneer metered,
Mouth stretched sideways,
Toothy as a dumb grinning jester.

Yearning to make one stupid gesture,
So you’ll see I’m not too interested in being above or lesser.
Just on a mission,
Learning how to be both student and teacher:

Drawing abyssal blueprints,
Joining the disillusioned,
Describing a dynamic curriculum
And coding oaths like Odin’s to bind Cosmic-Woden’s
--Mr. Omnipotent to us rodents—undying reticulum.


Re-programmed to generate runic music
Nomenclature shaped in the underlying resonating
That is every particle operating in unison.

So I'm riding the chronicled-Euclidean space-time continuum
Of balance known to us as equilibrium,
And can you feel me breathing?

It’s the giving and taking and pushing and pulling of gravity propagating,
Bending light under and rending sight of what will be and what has been.

Oh well,
[Where], (when), {how} I am is what matters most to me.

“Jinkies!”
“What is it Velma?!”
“I think that’s Relativity.”

So, speaking relatively
I’d rather deduce from what’s relevant to me,
Lather rinse and reduce the divine to dust in the winds of time,
And maybe see the truth behind {who}, [what], (why) I’m-

[{assburgian]}: high functioning and genius,
Mumbling, s-st-stutterin', tic tic-ing and tremblin’.
it's ****-chilling and tedious.

But wait! There’s more.

{(Bipolar}): slightly manic, and comically dramatic.
Severely depressed and in a silent panic.
Practically sleepless, it’s fairly fantastic.
My memory I mean,
If all my senses witness a scene
The info is sealed within me perfectly,
Perceptually and verbally,
Non-mutational, stability.

In the short term, unfortunately,
My focus is overloaded with scenery
Of bullies, abusers, and over-users.
It’s misery listening to scratched records on repeat,
Immune to wrecking.
For that I thank my ([ADHD)]: predominately inattentive
Wtih dsylixea, definitive alcoholism, drug addiction, and the list goes on.
So yeah, I’m on the spectrum, I’m a functional positron.

“That guy’s *******, He can’t even act right.
He’s emotionless, a mindless robot.
There’s no empathy in that golem.
That ugly alien’ll never be like you or me,
He’s clueless, aloof and downright foolish.
So let’s just forget that freak, he kinda scares us.”

Oh yeah?
Well keep that **** in your ******,
Order the facts and double check’em.

“We're not so different you, me, and them.
We just built a bent border 'round the word disorder.
Sure, that’s the preference, to make no inference.
Ignorance is bliss, right?”

For my defense?
Well golly-gee thanks, that’s all lovely and great.
But now the neurologically typical person
Thinks they can fix me, without knowing my burdens
Like, “you’s gots a d’zeez cuz’a factseens”

This "cray" **** gets me irate.
Diagnoseez wrapped in fear-mongering, seen with hate,
And convinced to wait for a miracle.
Well too bad so sad,
The difference is anatomical.
So treating me means training me
To be “normal, deviations nominal.”

(Am I ******’a dog, what the ****?!
Wait, back it up and mix that bit up.)
“What the ****, am I a ******’ dog?!
Oh, if they knew the truth they’d think I’m a ******* demigod.”
(Ha right, more like a log full buried eternally in'a boggle.)

My parents tried and tried for my birth,
They almost considered me impossible.
I was nearly inconceivable.
Then the multi-verse cursed,
And that message was receivable,
I heard it was a freakin’ miracle.
Not that mom cared, she was irresponsible.
Wanted to be a free mirth queen.

Aww, she just needed security.
Even after my birth on Friday 3/13/92 into a noose,
Loosely scorned and hardly lyrical.
They had to remove me surgically from the womb and
Now I've grown oddly into a super human body.

I’m physically atypical with an extra lumbar vertebra.
Some think me mythical, my hearts cage is even, part of a
Hard skeleton wearin’ *** appeal and a
Strong fresh sheath of flesh that’s quick to heal.
Ask me to speak, out comes a voice so deep you’d think the sky fell.

I’m mentally inexplicable,
Thinking in infinite Voices simultaneously painting imagery indefinitely.  
It has me lagging in a neuronal-conundrum.
I’m containing a brain wound up and
So over-wired it's redundant.

Making my head so heavy the ground is over-tired,
Barely overcoming addiction to dilating mundane details.
And a bit slow to obtain'em,
Those growing verbal-perceptual rains of information.
It's why I'm highly aware of the visual-spatial patterned puzzle pieces of existence.

So my mind is orbiting off in the distance,
Oblivious to non-verbal relation,
Just spaced-out communication.
I'm nearly incompatible
With most people in this global nation.
Everyone's got recipes for lemonade,
And I've got durian, that's **** ironical.
I told you, the difference is anatomical.
Can't be changed, so forget being normal tragically!

“That’s great and all,
But you still can’t communicate,
Associate,
Or surmount your human viewpoint
And recreate.
So what’s the point, you’ll never amount
And you shouldn't be allowed to procreate,
Just **** yourself.”

Shut the **** up, mate!
No one is beyond help,
And I'm in good health.
So who says I need your help.

I’m a catch-it-all trainer,
Long distance sprinter,
Heavy weight lifter,
Martial arts practitioner,
And Muay Thai fighter
Of the metaphysical plane or
Flyin’ my x-wing, taking out tie fighters.
Muckin’ up misinformed storm troopers,
Shovin’ **** back down their word poopers.

Yeah, I’ve tried playin’ The Game
That society designed.
But that sick joke
Was painfully lame.
And the punchline,
All but broke me.


I died philosophically.
Spent three days regenerating.
Re-writing my subconscious poetry
Like The Doct-uh,
The Boo-duh,
Or Mist-uh
Believe-in-me.

Pulverizing words into compost,
Composing metaphor to re-code seeds
Set to regrow self-trees from the ground up.
Splitting myself up into three categories,
(Mind), [body], and {me} all clowned up.

It is a truly significant allegory,
Greening my being with jocundity.
Creating profundity for gardening,
Generalizing and broadening the concept
And applying it metaphorically.

In the attempt
To join fantasy
With reality
And become truly
One with “we”;
Livin' and loven'in
Disparity and hilarity
Of you,
Me,
And every fellow
There is to see.

So, “hello
i am the gardener and
i am jocund and
…|[{(i am)}]|…
quite pleased
to meet
we.”

Deor's Lament

(Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa the 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Weland endured the agony of exile:
an indomitable smith wracked by grief.
He suffered countless sorrows;
indeed, such sorrows were his ***** companions
in that frozen island dungeon
where Nithad fettered him:
so many strong-but-supple sinew-bands
binding the better man.
That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths,
bemoaning also her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She knew nothing good could ever come of it.
That passed away; this also may.

We have heard the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lovely lady, waxed limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
That passed away; this also may.

For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many acknowledged his mastery and moaned.
That passed away; this also may.

We have heard too of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he cruelly ruled the Goths' realms.
That was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his crown might be overthrown.
That passed away; this also may.

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are limitless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I can say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just king. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors had promised me.
That passed away; this also may.

Footnotes and Translator's Comments
by Michael R. Burch

Summary

"Deor's Lament" appears in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to around 960-990 AD. The poem may be considerably older than the manuscript, since many ancient poems were passed down ****** for generations before they were finally written down. The poem is a lament in which someone named Deor, presumably the poet who composed the poem, compares the loss of his job and prospects to seemingly far greater tragedies of the past. Thus "Deor's Lament" may be an early example of overstatement and/or "special pleading."

Author

The author is unknown but may have been an Anglo-Saxon scop (poet) named Deor. However it is also possible that the poem was written by someone else. We have no knowledge of a poet named "Deor" outside the poem.

Genre

"Deor's Lament" is, as its name indicates, a lament. The poem has also been classified as an Anglo-Saxon elegy or dirge. If the poet's name "was" Deor, does that mean he is no longer alive and is speaking to us from beyond the grave? "Deor" has also been categorized as an ubi sunt ("where are they now?") poem.

Theme

The poem's theme is one common to Anglo-Saxon poetry and literature: that a man cannot escape his fate and thus can only meet it with courage, resolve and fortitude.

Plot

Doer's name means "dear" and the poet puns on his name in the final stanza: "I was dear to my lord. My name was Deor." The name Deor may also has connotations of "noble" and "excellent." The plot of Deor's poem is simple and straightforward: other heroic figures of the past overcame adversity; so Deor may also be able to overcome the injustice done to him when his lord gave his position to a rival. It is even possible that Deor intended the poem to be a spell, incantation, curse or charm of sorts.

Techniques

"Deor's Lament" is an alliterative poem: it uses alliteration rather than meter to "create a flow" of words. This was typical of Anglo-Saxon poetry. “Deor's Lament" is one of the first Old English poems to employ a refrain, which it does quite effectively. What does the refrain "Thaes ofereode, thisses swa maeg" mean? Perhaps something like: "That was overcome, and so this may be overcome also." However, the refrain is ambiguous: perhaps the speaker believes things will work out the same way; or perhaps he is merely suggesting that things might work out for the best; or perhaps he is being ironical, knowing that they won't.

Interpretation

My personal interpretation of the poem is that the poet is employing irony. All the previously-mentioned heroes and heroines are dead. I believe Deor is already dead, or knows that he is an old man soon to also be dead. "Passed away" maybe a euphemism for "dead as a doornail." But I don't "know" this, and you are free to disagree and find your own interpretation of the poem.

Analysis of Characters and References

Weland/Welund is better known today as Wayland the Smith. (Beowulf's armor was said to have been fashioned by Weland.) According to an ancient Norse poem, Völundarkviða, Weland and his two brothers came upon three swan-maidens on a lake's shore, fell in love with them, and lived with them happily for seven years, until the swan-maidens flew away. His brothers left, but Weland stayed and turned to smithing, fashioning beautiful golden rings for the day of his swan-wife's return. King Nithuthr, hearing of this, took Weland captive, hamstrung him to keep him prisoner, and kept him enslaved on an island, forging fine things. Weland took revenge by killing Nithuthr's two sons and getting his daughter Beadohild pregnant. Finally Weland fashioned wings and flew away, sounding a bit like Icarus of Greek myth.

Maethhild (Matilda) and Geat (or "the Geat") are known to us from Scandianavian ballads. Magnild (Maethhild) was distressed because she foresaw that she would drown in a river. Gauti (Geat) replied that he would build a bridge over the river, but she responded that no one can flee fate. Sure enough, she drowned. Gauti then called for his harp, and, like a Germanic Orpheus, played so well that her body rose out of the waters. In one version she returned alive; in a darker version she returned dead, after which Gauti buried her properly and made harpstrings from her hair.

The Theodoric who ruled the Maerings for thirty years may have to be puzzled out. A ninth-century rune notes that nine generations prior a Theodric, lord of the Maerings, landed in Geatland and was killed there. In the early sixth century there was a Frankish king called Theoderic. But the connections seem tenuous, at best. Perhaps the thirty year rule is a clue to consider the Ostrogoth Theodoric, born around 451. He ruled Italy for around thirty years, until 526. Toward the end of his reign Theodoric, then in his seventies, named his infant grandson heir. There were rumours that members of his court were conspiring against his chosen successor. Furthermore, the Catholic church was opposing the Arian Theodoric. As a result of these tensions, several leading senators were arrested on suspicion of conspiracy, including Boethius. It was while he was imprisoned and awaiting execution that Boethius wrote his famous Consolation of Philosophy. Theodoric's final years were unfortunately marked by suspicion and distrust, so he may be the ruler referred to by Deor.

Eormenric was another king of the Ostrogoths who died in about 375; according to Ammianus Marcellinus, he killed himself out of fear of the invading Huns. According to other Old Norse Eddic poems (Guðrúnarhvöt and Hamðismál, Iormunrekkr), Eormenric had his wife Svannhildr trampled by horses because he suspected her of sleeping with his son. So he might qualify as a "grim king" with "wolfish ways."

Deor has left no trace of himself, other than this poem. Heorrenda appears as Horant in a thirteenth century German epic Kudrun. It was said that Horant sang so sweetly that birds fell silent at his song, and fish and animals in the wood fell motionless. That would indeed make him a formidable opponent for the scop Deor.

Keywords/Tags: Deor, Lament, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, translation, scop, mrbtr, Weland, Wayland, smith, exile, fetters, dungeon

I mixed liquid nitrogen
With my *** juices
Now I'm cool as ****

Interested in interesting intellectuals
Bringing bacon back, bread-bringing *******
Alliterating alliterative allocutions allowing abusive acronyms

For goodness and badness
And for some ugliness
Here’s the facts and I’ll lay them down right:
I’m a ******* sorcerer
And I don’t finish lists

Irony in the ironical first-person
I left someone behind when they told me to
And now I’m better off,
Know this poem’s for you.
Every time I see your face, I really hope you’re doing well
But deep in my mind I know that nothing’s changed
And you’re still the same, as I’m trying to change
To be a better person than I was when we met
But it’s something that you never noticed, yet
Something inside of me says we’re polar
Opposites and what really happened
Was for the best, for both of us
So I still keep in touch with
Friends around you
And I hope secretly
That you fall in
Unending mercy
And that I’m wrong.

I walked my walk, learnt people aren't permanent.
Remember this my tree, you'll just die in peace.
Must have been cold to get uprooted for nothing, while they say it's for their own thing.
Would be ironical if they make a diary out of your leaves.
And sure will they in joy, whilst leaving you to torment.

Rot you my trrrrrree.....

The abstraction of that day was ironical.

The sun shone and yet I felt no warmth.
The underlying freeze forever coating my flesh made it so.

The perpetual aura of filth that accompanied death,
that integrated throughout my protective membrane,
made me trash,
an anomaly cast into the world’s garden.

I had once heard the term of life described as a savage garden.

Indeed the sardonic cynicism of the very phrase
made me to feel like a worm weaving between each green shoot.

I am the necessary horror,
and my only purpose
is to find the dying flower wrinkling about the edges,
smudging the atmosphere of closeted peace,
or wrapping myself around a ****
that threatens the delicate balance
between
what humans choose to see
and what is tangible.

In this I strive for perfection.
I am the worm,
the earthen worm
sliding amongst the filth
and nutrient of soil.

And yet still I am the gardener
wielding my *** to rake out
plants that give the impression of being beautiful.

Yet appearances can never hide the truth,
and like I,
the stench of filth
and stagnated death (me!)
always hovers over those who think themselves
above the rest.

VERY IMPORTANT

I'm quitting poetry
(Part one)

I don't belong here
Nor do i belong there
Am not an author
Nor am i a writer
Am not a poet
I can't even write a sonnet
I don't write out of will
B'coz am not in a mission to heal
My pieces are not pure
So don't for cure
My poetry doesn't have a theme
Nor does it rhyme
I have done wrongs i can't undo
I need to apologize to my pen too
The paper need to take a revenge
'Cos i got no leverage
I have confused folks with my metaphor
But i can promise you this is now over
I tried to find solace behind my pen
It was futile it has just made my sorrow to deepen
I have lived a life of lie
Telling the truth i didn't even try
I have pretended i can write
Whereas i can't differentiate wrong from right
Someone called me tomorrow's wole soyinka
But now i realized it was an ironical moniker
I have been a shame to poetry
I should have tried the art of pottery
This are my confession
As i quit this proffesion

#kenyaismybeat

a splash, the water seeping into her clothes as malia went down, floating
deep even breaths, inhale, don't let go, eyes closed



she was eight when she pricked her pinky with the thorns of a fresh white rose having accompanied her father to buy a boquet for her mother's birthday, relinquishing on the droplets of blood painting the once plain rose realizing a beat later that she was hurt; such a mindless little action, the essential kick-start of these events; a snowball effect

she was ten when she rode her bike after failing her english exam and made herself fall down by the rocks, coming home with bruised, scratched knees, her mother quickly rushing to her aide with bandages and words of comfort. it was the first time she muttered an ironical set of im fine's and acted so cold in their warm home

she was eleven when she skipped her meals for two days and didn't come out of her room,holding herself in bed as her heart rocketed, for outside the door were her parents' deliberate fighting

she was twelve when she made her first ever cut, followed by three more slices and in the same year she threw up all the strawberry crepes in her friend's bathroom on her friend's birthday party, stuffed all her packed lunches in the bin on school days. it was the year her parents finally split up and her friends picked their other friends over her and the world around her was changing and she had not even her shadow's hand to hold but the glint of sharp silver and the taste of ***** and the feeling of melancholia and loneliness and despair,these unwelcome visitors turned her only friends

she was thirteen when she blew out the thirteen rainbow colored candles on her birthday cake as the people she once knew so close now like foreign continents sang her the birthday song and told her to make a wish. little did they know that she wished to be found dead

she was fourteen when she quit the dance team because it was as if she was a robot fueled by the techno beat and electronic rhythm, she felt as empty as the quiet minutes when the song finishes and went to her first ever party, got wasted and walked around town sleeping under the bridge blanketed by stars thinking my mother did wrong at picking out my name so so wrong she never should have sugar coated it for destruction could only be suppressed til it  destroys everything, the catalyst my mother should have named me destruction for it is the only reason for every bad thing that happened to my family, my friends, my life i am the reason and she slept, the only thought stuck in her mind

she fell in love when she was fifteen and it was a lovely time if not the best in her entire existence apart from the time her family was whole and they all loved one another and her childhood was golden. and this boy taught her how to dream again and cared for her heart and she once again cared for herself, like a dam broke inside her and water flowed everywhere in delight, like the curse was broken. together they snagged stars but believed that they shone triple times more when they held hands and had children in their dreams frolicking in their kingdom

but they broke up and their empire fell apart after a year of bliss and love it wasn't love but he made her believe in love, made herself believe it was love they shared til they ran down the fun house mirrors and saw the mockery in their distorted reflections and all their differences and their sins and the rubble and he looked at her with no recognition, utter disbelief and told her she wasn't good enough and this is never going to work and this should've never started and im sorry im sorry im sorry  sounding like cruel laughter in her ears and that was that and she craved for pain and destruction again because this is just how her story goes there are no cliff hangers or plot twists and once again she found herself alone and she listened to sad songs alone, blasted them in anger and took out her lighters and her blades, burned his letters, all the love notes and the things he gave that she once cherished and found herself in a flurry of mutilation because of course this was all her fault too, she let him have her and use her, empty her out and leave and she was love's fool.

her mother always told her to always tell the truth, her father telling her to never lie but they've all been doing it all along hadn't they? because love was a lie and her parents loved each other loved her and look how that turned out and the lover she once called told her so many times that he loved her more than the sun, the moon, the stars, and all the planets and he had a blackhole's force of ******* her into his lies and making her believe liars and she was no different and she had been doing all these things to hurt her because her name was destruction and she was destruction and she destroyed herself as well, punished herself for all her mistakes and this was the last punishment,

and she was seventeen when she was institutionalized after her "railroad accident" and she ended up with bruises and stitches and ***** failures alot worse than all the punishments she gave herself. so she failed at ending her life and her mother sat beside her in the hospital with stained glass eyes and mostly kept quiet because if she dared talk shed break and she couldn't do that when her daughter broke already while she stayed oblivious, drowning in her own grief all these years but malia knew what she wanted to say "how could you do this to yourself? to me? why malia? why?"
and for a year she was locked up with therapists and pills and people who held destruction within them people like her

she was eighteen and she was back at school and had decent grades enough to impress the universities and she found herself a group of friends who were okay with her past,she and her mother have started spending time together again catching up and talking things out and sometimes she'd eat out with her father and they'd hang out for a bit. it was finally a life worthy of being called a life



now she just sits there in the bottom of the swimming pool as nightfalls
there was no explanation but they've gotten it all wrong
deep breaths and hold it in the longest you can with your head underwater and then think about everything until you're close to drowning

she didn't do this all the time, just when things got bad
everyone thought that she was better, that she healed
well she did
but not completely, not for eternity

she wanted to believe that she's okay
that the meds worked and all that therapy succeeded and all that mental health days were worth it and that she was going somewhere in the future

she knew that people cared and worried about her but sometimes wanted more like a greedy void because sometimes all they did was care but they didn't know how to help, like they don't really understand but merely grasping

her mother thought she was better
her friends thought she was better
her father whom she saw once a month thought she was better
her doctors thought she was better
they didn't know about this about her compromise with self harm

she still had the scars and the burns as well as the stitches from the "accident" like tattoos on her body which may never fade. she really wanted to get past all of it but tonight she succumbs and it hurt less than what she used to do for punishment
she didn't even know what she was punishing herself for this time; she just wanted the general feeling of pain, the only thing she's ever been sure of for years like a visit from an old friend





she woke the day after with the damp floor tiles under her and the glisten of the lapping pool water beside and she was glad that she did

We are creatures of habit, believe this is true.
For we are the sum of the things that we do.
So if I adopt the thousand yard stare,
Who will I be but the mask that I wear?

What would I be but the role that I act?
A remorseless killer, devoid of tact,
For fear that through kindness his weakness will show,
So the spaces between him and others would grow,

As if to match the point of his focus.
His thoughts all bearing an inward locus.
His life desolate, its body cold,
Loving no one, and growing old.

Just as well I could try on a charming smile,
The kind that says, “Sit down, stay a while.”
And as with a fire, others would find it meet,
To huddle around me and draw on my heat.

Assuming that there was some magic within,
Causing my cheeks defy gravity with a grin,
As if to propagate life’s paradox,
Who with ironical grin entropy mocks,

As a river flowing against an eddy,
Removing its basis when conditions are ready.
This in mind, clever Judases would know,
That through my kindness, my weakness would show.

So which should I wear, Thalia, Melpomene,
Exists there a mean between your extremes?
Whichever the case, this much we should trust:
That what we do without urging, speaks most of us.

Now……..all over me, fly these treacherous bullets and bombs, I have got no other option, but to tussle in this Satan’s home. His hazy silhouette, his jagged bayonet........                                                  somehow, withholding that emotional torrent;      covertly, cowardly, I did what I was supposed to do,               eased his misery, I freed his soul.                          Deep down I can’t accept that my hands are now defiled, but Mother shed no tear for me……….please, don’t you cry.

Father, I still remember that toy gun,                         which you had bought for my birthday.                       Its ironical that even after several years,                         I play with my gun, night after night, day after day. But when I realise that it can never be that toy I had, the clatter it produced, which  is now the theme song of my life, dismay is all I got, it kills me from inside,                                                                         but father shed no tear for me....... please, don’t you cry.

Brother, do you remember that day ,                    when I had pushed you from behind,                  you bruised your knee on the ground, in dust lay your broken bike. Forgive me , for the sake of those good old times, Hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, when we walked in the wild, hiding from mother, and running away from the frets of our lives. I am sorry that I will never be able to see u rise and shine, but brother shed no tear for me....... please, don’t u cry.

Sitting here , in my  garrison ,                        I think about all those things that I have done.               It is my choler that I can no longer contain,             because this may be the last time, when I lift my pen.                 I have to accept this reality with great composure composure                                      but I have made u proud, haven’t I?                                   So Mother please smile, as my last breath will be for you,                     in your arms I shall die.

The days grow longer
And there is sleeping somber
Happiness in hearing your voice
Has no chain reaction and has lost its poise.

Even with my own troubles, then hearing yours
Drought became springs of offerings.
Unknowingly you mended my soul to follow detours,
In spite of ironical sufferings.

But despite that claim, and the ground untold
Paths have laid stones away from the bend.
Unheard, unsure the view of the fenced abode
This remains forever unanswered at this end

I tried to get to you; I left all I can mark
Assurance, regret but admire; my last true remark
I once felt, like I was trapped within a cell
But I seem to no longer hear your name,

Generals don't die they fade away. I was not baptized senior for nothing. I walk the talk.

Calling of names or perhaps the highest extend of insults, He a bankrupt of vocabulary was able to ooze a well paraphrased insult  " A lunatic hoof around the institution yet he has no business in mmust anymore". A comrade *** lunatic is quite ironical but why am I underestimating this scenario ? For your pretty information this is Kenya not some place in the state of Delaware. Perhaps what baffles me the most is the exodus of the phrase "a lunatic hoof". I know this other fellow who failed to pay back the money I loaned him to travel his ****** *** to see her concubine though as Iam writing his so called wife to be kicked his ***** out of him he is now a woman who shares bed stories with her own biological mother.

The circle of events has earned me a couple of names. A rebel, a kigeugeu just to mentioned a few, the reason being I don't hang around some parasitic mongrels for long, but in the spirit of comradeship let me ask you this. what do we do to fellows suffering from contagious diseases? Just assume everything is alright and move on, no you got to do something brethren. I am one man who do not prevaricate and I always tell everyone who comes to me that my performance has never been in doubt and for real l mean all that I say n say all that I mean.

I can not turn to be a lunatic when you have siphoned a part of me, my muscles aren't strong I am on my deathbed, Ready to face the red earth. I hear you are now rejoicing about my insincere downfall but tomorrow you never know. Some John the baptist is busy preparing for my u turn. You once asked if I could ever settle down at some huduma... Hahaha today I am sitting pretty enjoying my madness. As you mentioned that I am a kigeugeu, that is what I was made to be I can't be you and you can't be me. You know I don't cry like you do comrade a traditionalists indeed.

Mr as you move around with your one time ingredient of talks and now newly found woman in man's attire ******* the character officer everyone who once assisted ewe adding salts and mercury to sugar  remember we fought for you someday. We saved you from the jaws of an angry crocodile. That alone should make you at least  grateful.


A self proclaimed custodian of culture and norms crying just because ....hahaha the devil is a liar for real, A man asking his one time girlfriend for a refund of money you gave out on your on volition is childish. Walking around gossiping my friend like your....you know your best friend at home. To your best friend remind him that ten shilling is for sweets.

When poetry describes the historical,
One refrains from becoming hysterical.
However by use of the judicial rhetorical
A Poet makes full use of the allegorical!

So when writing poetry I remain stoical,
That though some may think me radical,
Employing words they considered lyrical,
I try never to appear, irrational or critical.

To write about the mystical and cryptical,
Using strict rhythm?  Can be diabolical!
As for themes regarded purely mythical,
I shy from words too pictorial or technical.

My approach to topics humourously comical,
Is to compose lines thoughtfully satirical.
In turn this allows me to remain sceptical,
Whilst appearing not too fanatical or cynical!

So, if with words I am reckoned economical?
I hope my rational thoughts are not illogical,
But in using descriptive words, is it ethical
To ensure Poems not be too whimsical?

Now, without appearing to be pontifical,
Though I'm always careful to be veridical,
I'm allowed at times, to wax philosophical,
As I attempt to depict matters paradoxical.

Doubtless some will find my words inimical:
Fanatically methodical and chronological?
But in attempting the facetious or ironical,
I'll avoid the pitfalls of being too graphical.

Should poetry be left to the technological?
One might find it becomes too puritanical.
And suggest the Poet was unduly practical!
Such is the way of the biased hypocritical!

If my poetic lines appear to be egotistical?
Then readers must understand, that's logical.
But please I beg of you, never be heretical,
When lines concern the canonical or political.

Will a Poet's thoughts be considered farcical,
If a reader is left bemused and quizzical?
Or should he stick to the unequivocally canonical?
Personally, I'm happy if my poems are grammatical!

So I'll conclude thinking poetry may be symbolical,
And my many rhymes, in quantities numerical,
May not satisfy the purist nor the global ecumenical,
But they deal with topics that are never hypothetical!


Rhymer.  July 10th, 2018.

(Your turn Jim!)

how ironical
is it to fall in
love with
someone who
only wants to
break your heart?

Maybe it was not you, maybe it was me
Setting bridges ablaze
Before crossing
And trying to find  out
What was there on the other side

I'm sorry. I'm sorry you were left there on the other side. If I had only known, if I had only seen, maybe we both would not have been smothered in the fire I had kindled. I swear it was only meant for me.. It's really funny how the fire I had hoped would destroy me just burnt me, it was that one look of anguish in your eyes that reduced me to ashes. Too bad. I'd have taken hundred of those burnings to take away your pain away. Pain that I had unintentionally carved into your flesh.


Maybe I should have said something, maybe you would not have heard it anyway,
But now these silences have become the crime scenes as well as the witnesses*

It's kinda ironical how you've always been the one to  get me down on my knees to pray and the one that had me concluding that both of us had fallen out of God's grace long before we were born. Lucifers in our own hell. Aching from the loss of what we could  have been.

Maybe I should have asked, maybe you should have stayed,
Maybe then we would have something in common other than our parents,
And our disappointments.


I wonder if you too have just gone through your life, uncaring, and, uninterested as if you were stuck in someone else's dream. I wonder which no. Of disappointment it was after which we decided that there was nothing to be salvaged. Not even us. Esp not us. We have gone so long without talking that yesterday when I opened my mouth, no words came out. Whenever I look at us, I wonder if cremation is just going to be a formality? I wonder if they know why I talk so much because I'm afraid if I stop I'd hear the unwanted sounds telling me that I did not talk you out of ruining yourself. I did not say a word, probably, the only time when my words held any significance and I'm sorry, my baby brother. I'm sorry.


Maybe If I had tried harder, maybe if you had not resisted longer
Then maybe we would not be soaked into this rain, permanently
The sky weeping silent poetry that only you and I can feel.

I never played with you. I tried yesterday to get you to but it was too late I guess. You remained seated in the corner of the balcony. I wonder what it is that you see that is interesting enough to keep you looking but not enough to go out and feel it. I wish I could tell you that is how I feel sometimes too. But I just don't know how to. So I stand there awkwardly in the sidelines. I laugh mirthless. Sidelines. That's where I have always been when it came to you. Have not I? I see our neighbor look at us. I wonder if they call it sweet, or, love? Me? I don't dare call it anything.

i simply can't believe the irony, well, it's irony in a historiological sense, and yes, if there's an affix of -ology ascribed to history, i.e.: how history tends to repeat itself, then the ironical history, the poetic history is also in place, history is by far, imbued by a chronological rigidity... oops. what does this concern, the lampooning hysteria of: the fall of the west, the fall of the west, the english are coming! sure, the germans are ***** sadomasochists in their own right, collectively, unlike the french singular development... but that's beside the point. you know what i've conjured? a prediction... western civilisation will only be revived, by the fall of the western / wailing wall in jerusalem... odd, this ha-kotel ha-ma'arav, this haa'it al-búraaq: you know what the slavic word for beetroot is? burak (ckq): western civilisation will have to be beaten to a beetroot pulp of ****** scars, and the western wall will, first have to fall, before a 4th temple is built; but this wall will have to fall, before the western world wakes up... it's going to be a painful process, but for the western world to reestablish itself: the jews will have to bid goodbye to their most sacred sanctity, their mecca, only when this happens, with an equilibrated sense of purpose arrive for the current sphere of affairs... not until she(h)-lo(h) beit (שלו בית) is erected, will the west seize its dodo project; i.e. his house; curious, isn't it, how the jews are teasing with this waiting game, then again: it is much much easier to desecrate mecca by the muslims, building profanities around the al-masjid al-haraam (wait, isn't haraam the word used by "allah" to state: forbidden? funny, funny that, ah who cares if it's one extra A); because what stands in the rebuilding of the שלו בית? oh, nothing, just the kippat ha-sela... muslims would sooner part with the mosque in mecca, than the dome of the rock in jerusalem; but first? the western wall must fall.

it's just a cliche to state, but this whole
notion of latin, being dead?
  this nietzschean
   *lateinisch ist tot -
  looks like god is alive after all...
why? take for example that every
single english t.v. show ends with
the credits of when the show was made,
the year? always given in roman
numerals... every, single, one...
that's for starters... oh, by the way,
what alphabet are we using?
   isn't it latin? my, what a coincidence,
and look! it rained from heaven
to enforce it, since the "barbarian"
north men, der nordenmänner
invoked diacritical enforcement -
   diacritical enforcement -
ya,    nordenmaanner (i can count
you know, it's just two dots above
the a, come on, don't be english
with your: i don't know how to pronounce
a word)...
and in the current year, anno domini
that's 2017 (MMXVII) -
we still see latin revived, up-kept,
nay, i'll go as far as to call it: cherished!
it would seem there's a pattern -
well, what with the egyptian enslavement
of the jews,
     and subsequently the destruction
of jerusalem, and the babylonian
enslavement (by the way,
chant of the hebrew slaves from verdi's
opera nabucco? my my) -
but you notice something?
  the romans didn't enslave the jews,
hence they fermented the most potent
zeitgeist for the hebrews,
    a strong priestly caste -
the hebrews bloomed under the romans,
because? the romans thought
very little of them in their physical
capacity, that role was allocated to
the nubians, and, moreover,
they thought about their intellectual
output even less -
      how could the jews compete with
the grecian intellect in the ancient world?
it couldn't! so they let them be.
sure as **** we can say that
nubians were the slaves in rome -
thus in a precursor to the final culmination,
try conceptualising newton's laws,
or einstein's relativity,
   using roman numerals, alternatively
known by the greeks to be the seven
headed beast from the book of revelation:
I V X L C D M -
  but at the same time, try to grasp
the aesthetic beauty of ancient rome,
the coliseum using modern digits
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 - both systems are:
incompatible, or should i say: chiral.
just imagine HOW CONFUSING IT MUST
HAVE BEEN, AT TIMES,
  TO ASK FOR XLIV APPLES
at a market...
         staggering, man's ingenuity -
and this is why i keep all evolution bound
to script, the aristotelian measure of time,
rather than the platonic measure of time
conscripting forms,
   given the similarity of man to ape;
but that is still beside the point -
i wonder about the divine judgement with
respect to the romans and their
relationship with the hebrews, even though
they did destroy the temple
in jerusalem...
           well, i just look at it like this:
perhaps the remains of spoken latin is
"dead" in that it is muddled, but it is muddled
because the script has such a wide
geographic region of it being used -
              it's as if a universal medium was
achieved, for the greatest accomplishment
of the romans, is their script;
but the hell happened to the egyptian hieroglyphs,
or the babylonian cuneiform,
well, what? they became extinct!
           what does this suggest,
that the romans could not be blamed for
any foul play with respect to the hebrews,
the latin script was spared the fate of
the both hieroglyphs or cuneiform -
so much so that it didn't even succumb to
to the nordic runes, as it could have -
could have...
                  and it certainly didn't become
quasi-greek, as cyrillic script emerged.
         ergo?
gott ist nicht tot, seit lateinisch ist leben.