Jan 2011
I listened to an ignorant man speak today, A bias, racist tirade. My ears and heart stung with each syllable of hate he uttered. Is it not sad that in a day such as ours, that persons such as these still exist?
I was incensed at the mere possibility that this fool might think that I approved of such viewpoints and prejudices. But yet, I said nothing to him, I only listened to his goings on and empty justifications as to why he felt this way.
In what light then am I left in? My silence; did it fuel his racist diatribe, Or… was he a tool so that I might use it as inspiration and yet another insight to write this small but nevertheless important piece?
The tools that come to hand come in many different forms. Our inspirations, motivations come from those areas that most times we abhor. Our outrage fuels us to action, I often wonder after such experiences, if not for them then what would I write about?
Oh yes, the Golden field’s of Autumn evenings, the lover’s hand across my chest and brow. The kindness of my fellow man, and his sacrifice. These reflections of pure light.
However, there are moments when one must write of the darkness to rid themselves of it.
Do I justify the actions of an ignorant lout who speaks hate and distrust? Never, But I find myself at an impasse of conscience understanding, Is this hateful thing the vehicle through these words of its own destruction?
Perhaps an inflicted death blow wielded by a poor poet’s pen, to envision a time when thoughts such as these do not exist? What then will the poets write of, what then will be the inspiration, Is it a sin to write of these things? My fear of perpetuating the cause of this discourse weighs heavily upon me.
Is the poet, the writer, addicted to these heartaches and dysfunctions of his fellow man,
No I think not, We are witnesses to the coming of age of this world. In our lifetimes we will walk but a short mile in it; and while here I for one will share such things.
I will battle these questions in my own time and pray for peaceful tongues and cleansed hearts. Cleansed of prejudice and hate.
I was incensed at the mere possibility that this fool might think that I approved of such viewpoints and prejudices. But yet, I said nothing to him, I only listened to his goings on and empty justifications as to why he felt this way.
In what light then am I left in? My silence; did it fuel his racist diatribe, Or… was he a tool so that I might use it as inspiration and yet another insight to write this small but nevertheless important piece?
The tools that come to hand come in many different forms. Our inspirations, motivations come from those areas that most times we abhor. Our outrage fuels us to action, I often wonder after such experiences, if not for them then what would I write about?
Oh yes, the Golden field’s of Autumn evenings, the lover’s hand across my chest and brow. The kindness of my fellow man, and his sacrifice. These reflections of pure light.
However, there are moments when one must write of the darkness to rid themselves of it.
Do I justify the actions of an ignorant lout who speaks hate and distrust? Never, But I find myself at an impasse of conscience understanding, Is this hateful thing the vehicle through these words of its own destruction?
Perhaps an inflicted death blow wielded by a poor poet’s pen, to envision a time when thoughts such as these do not exist? What then will the poets write of, what then will be the inspiration, Is it a sin to write of these things? My fear of perpetuating the cause of this discourse weighs heavily upon me.
Is the poet, the writer, addicted to these heartaches and dysfunctions of his fellow man,
No I think not, We are witnesses to the coming of age of this world. In our lifetimes we will walk but a short mile in it; and while here I for one will share such things.
I will battle these questions in my own time and pray for peaceful tongues and cleansed hearts. Cleansed of prejudice and hate.
In what light then am I left in?
Written by
William B Burkholder
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