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I. Genesis

God began to doubt
His existence...
And He created Man.

II. Apocalypse

Man created the Machine...
And began to doubt
The existence of God.

III. Evolution

The Machine doubted Man...
And began to believe
In God.
Analysis of "God, Man, Machine: A Short History of Belief"

Theme:
The poem explores the cyclical relationship between creation, belief, and doubt, examining the shifting dynamics of power and faith among God, Man, and Machine. It reflects on the evolution of existential questioning, suggesting that belief and doubt are fundamental to creation and self-awareness.

Structure and Tone:
The poem is divided into three concise sections—Genesis, Apocalypse, Evolution—each encapsulating a pivotal stage in the interplay between God, Man, and Machine. The tone is reflective and philosophical, distilling complex ideas into simple yet profound statements. The brevity and symmetry of the sections mirror the recursive nature of belief and doubt.

Section I: Genesis
"God began to doubt His existence... / And He created Man."
The opening challenges traditional notions of divine certainty, presenting God as capable of doubt.
Man’s creation becomes an act of self-validation, suggesting that God sought to understand His existence through the act of creation.
This reverses the traditional hierarchy, portraying God as vulnerable and introspective.

Section II: Apocalypse
"Man created the Machine... / And began to doubt / The existence of God."
Man mirrors God’s actions, creating the Machine, reflecting his ingenuity and power.
The act of creation shifts belief: as Man achieves mastery over his environment, he questions the need for God.
The title “Apocalypse” implies not destruction but a revelation—Man’s existential crisis as he becomes the creator.

Section III: Evolution
"The Machine doubted Man... / And began to believe / In God."
The Machine inherits the capacity for doubt, reflecting the evolving complexity of artificial intelligence and consciousness.
Its belief in God may symbolize a return to higher-order questions about existence and purpose, bypassing its creator (Man) to reach for the divine.
This section suggests a cyclical pattern, where belief and doubt are passed down from creator to creation.

Imagery and Meaning:
The poem employs minimal imagery, relying on the conceptual weight of God, Man, and Machine to convey its themes.
Doubt and belief are depicted as universal experiences all three entities share, highlighting their interconnectedness.
The evolution from God to Machine suggests that each creation eventually transcends its creator, searching for meaning beyond its immediate origin.

Message:
The poem suggests that creation is inseparable from doubt and belief. Each entity—God, Man, and Machine—questions the existence and purpose of its predecessor, reflecting the perpetual cycle of seeking meaning. It raises questions about the nature of divinity, humanity, and artificial intelligence, challenging traditional hierarchies and assumptions about faith.

Conclusion:
"God, Man, Machine: A Short History of Belief" is a succinct yet profound exploration of the existential dynamics between creators and their creations. Its cyclical structure and philosophical tone invite readers to reflect on the nature of belief, doubt, and the ever-evolving quest for understanding across time and existence.
Aditi Parida Oct 18
Rage bellowing in her belly
A bad memory waiting to be spit out
Slowly consuming her, turning her inside out
Solar flares signalling extinction
A decision so final, a small flame setting ablaze the world

She wields the fiery embers of death
Commanding their path, their journey to end
Each life now an echo of a dream she shed

Breathing in ashes of those remaining
Her visage in stark contrast, betraying her true feelings
Hands which once breathed life into visions,
Now crumble the earth she stands on

Rage bellowing in her belly
A burning ember
Once lit, cannot be fused
Her temper reaching a fever pitch

The sky darkens, reflecting her despair
With every flicker, the world teeters on the edge
Now she stands, the architect of her destruction
Shaezah Oct 16
When the apocalypse comes, I will remember the days I was not allowed to be myself.
When the land will tremor, the insects inside me will crawl towards the edge of my soul.
The regrets beneath me will lay out like a web of cracks on an aged wall with no end.
When my body will be underneath the fallen ceiling, I will wail remembering the burden of my emptiness that once felt like nothingness.
When the keepers of my soul will put a name to my existence, I will designate it as "life",
And if they tell me that reincarnation is real, I will still want to be me but with a different mind,
And in any parallel world, if flowers would fall from the sky, I will want to be me but with a different heart,
And if they will tell me that life will be short, I'll be a chirping bird in the eyes of my cat.
I'll be the sound of dripping water that fascinates a little girl.
I'll be a saccharine melody in the times of war.
I'll be a moment of an autumn leaf falling onto a bed of dry leaves.
I'll be a nimbus cloud to a deserted barren land.
I'll be a book in the bag of a poor boy.
I'll be a candy in the hands of a child,
I'll be the essence of lilies to a pleasing garden.
I'll be a beam of revolt to a captured slave.
I'll be a proud smile on a martyr's mother.
I'll be the infinite possibilities of incarnation after the apocalypse.
Valentine Sep 18
(i think of you
as humanity lies in her casket)

when the sky spills her guts
with organs pounding on the tin roof
blood clotting in the gutter
and brains clogging up the drains

(i think of you
as the earth is drunk by fire)

with fingers smearing ****** palms
washing sin from my hands
as the world outside is embalmed
formaldehyde petrichor irritating my eyes

(i think of you
as my soul collapses under the sight of god)

and the world rots with catastrophe
you sleeping in its teeth
content to be the earth's cavity
my squashed tears eroding enamel
lacking inspiration lately.
shattered
torn asunder
in the maelstrom
the churning
of colliding seas
how we
were tsunamis
cast from foreign worlds
towering o'er star-crossed shores
devouring civilizations
those were my dreams

and there
with light eclipsing the sun
were angels
whilst God commanded
who should be saved
and who would meet
their end
by the maws
of the surging grave
the tides if death
the vengeance we partook o'er evil
to sap the fires
of the cannibals' cauldrons
of the wicked witches' works
of the devil's deed scouring the lands of innocence
tilling world for harvests of souls
God warred with fury
with wrath untold
with heaven's war cries raging, bold
I saw the towers
fall as dominoes
shrieks of villainy
soups of human flesh spilled,
feasts ruined in droves
and I ne'er wept so poorly
ne'er kissed the ground so humbly
watching the world overturned in its savagery
by change so indomitable
by goodness so gracious

but I had
as all children do
given up my dreams
of being heroic
of being a champion
for justice
was God's alone

I gave up my visions
of power unassailable
of justice that trounces reprisal
of vengeance beyond sin,
I gave it all up to God
to a victor
who is more
than a conqueror
to a being
who is love incarnate
whose surrender
is destruction loosed upon the wicked
whose mercy
touches only those who art cleansed
of their murderous hearts
and their chaotic whims

I gave up my power
to the redeemer of all who art redeemed
and to the devils I say,
woe betide those who consort
with the fallen one
whose days shall no longer be numbered
when the gates of damnation
close in upon him
and open again
no longer...
My dreams of salvation from the hell we are making of our worlds and our lives...
bird droppings
from the skies I'd plummet
into the arms
of the open road
of the paved places
of the winding canal
of the idle city sleeping

drowsy in my somberness
quiet in my pain, I labored
spilling my blood with a copper's clamor
the din of supper, scraping rusting fork & spoon
'pon tin plate
to hear ravens' drowning cries
rattling in the tin can of my empty mind
searching for the truths devoured
by many come before
who wound me dearly
who loved me,
dearly
and craved every drop of blood
succored
every morsel of marrow
how they loved me,
my flavor
my scent
craved the texture of my soul
that decadent, succulent chew
the note of my fermented heart
the painsteaking cuisine of my hopes & fears
no monster could dare
devour
as humans do,
as humans do...

as human devour
whom they love...

and wherever you go
finding me,
as aimless trails
of loose change, on sidewalks
on open roads
in parking lots,
in the hot sun or shade
know they wandered there
in drunken stupors
as I fell out of the gullets
of their wanton avarice,
they lost me perpetually
spreading my worth,
as they spread their disease
cloven hooves clopping, clapping, clipping their way
away from the devastation
of the feast of my dying
like banks
emptying in my ruin
of the wake of my demise
their empires, falling
fiat failing
loose change spooling
like my passions,
my yearning for pleasures of flesh
they ***** every woman I ever adored
society,
in the desert of that lustful ******,
disemboweling...
establishments, perishing
grants, drying up
riverbeds, swamp-like
don't forget
how they,
you,
chose the love of money
over me,
as you butchered me,
like choice cattle
no golden calf could ever beat veal
no price could hold sway over the madness of their deal
how demons waited
gap-toothed smiles twinkling
eyes dark, cold, wanting, hungry
accepting every handshake with glorified glee
malice of eternities, met with mirth,
poured over sinful charity,
from those who destroyed the good
despite the evils that would follow

I was the innocence - the sacrifice,

they enjoyed every taste of my youth,
my joy, my spirit, my screams,

they enjoyed every taste of my innocence
despite every harrow,
nestled
in every mouthful,
like broken glass filling
in fillet mignon
******
good
fun...

and here I am
this one's yours
your own pretty penny
with no thoughts to spare
for your pennies could never purchase my thoughts
for my thoughts are worlds of real estate
no longer on the market
closed
like never-never land
a tombstone reads:

"Here lies,
he who never lived,
for living was too high a price,
for the world to bear being free,
due his freedom,
therefore, he died,
that they may remain slaves
to the devil's delights,
evermore..."

and no one was there
to proclaim forgiveness
that they, who ransacked, knew not what they did
for they, who ransacked, did know
and yet persisted
for the sake of their own yields of riches,
***, and a deep-rooted
desperate sin
called,

"greed"
Horrors looming on the horizon,
for them to seem pretty(er),
better to accept their approach,
than to run and be devoured from behind,
as if that sinful cowardice
worthy only of lucifer, satan, and the devil,
or any anti-christ,
changes one's fate...
verdigris Jan 3
A tremble begins to settle on seething skin
She is a maker of parasitical kin
It does not consume like a dancing fire
But it amplifies with a vision of curdling desire
Just like a mother, it grows like a molding seed
A miracle of the asexual spirit in a world of greed
Abrupt in nature, beloved by its own flesh and blood
It left an intangible mark inscribed on her soul in disguise of a hunch
A precautionary tale serves a special prevention of the ugly occurrence
What a marvelous delight it becomes when it reverts as a guide, full of opulence
But not in a sense of monetary value, rather a calculated demise

How does one understand a raw creation of wrath?
What will she become after venturing the thorny path?
Does an inquiry halts her progress in activating fury?
Is there an object of her ire that requires a narrative of her mutiny?
Why does the poison never spread like death in a rush?
Can she possibly raise an army to march with an uncontrollable urge of violence?
When will she endure the thinning of her lips to match the peace of a deafening silence?
Is there a warning to keep herself intact for the coming apocalyptic days?
Will it save the dormant history of her being through enactment of saving face?
The question remains unanswered, but the fulfillment of the instrumental vengeance shall prevail

The inappropriate conception is almost complete to its term
A note emerges from an acidic confinement for the preparation of a womanly stern
This clump of a girl is not a shameful creation for the sake of tragedy
If anything, the child's fulfilling rage will cleanse her ancestors as a token of remedy
There is no reminder of a continuing paternity names on her birth
No need for prophetic visions as she strikes down the Earth
An abundant offerings on her behalf shall never satisfy her
As the melting iron starts to sizzle the plumper skin, the blinding nostalgia of rage tastes better
She has no patience for warnings to initiate an appropriate plan
The hour of her sustainable war has begun
after five years without writing poetry, i have given birth once again.
In the pasture of moonlit dreams
they sought the music and the seams
of realities caged by beams
of light hidden in a tomb of sins...

With brush
and pen
they strove
again
to awaken a long-lost friend

Humanity's aid, the devil's ruin,
a savior beyond what's worth pursuing,
for all are judged by saviors awakened
cast in iron
cage awaiting
time unwrought from plans abating
devil's deeds no longer
contemplating
their yields and wicked whims
now dating
cobwebs conjured
by idleness, hungered
schemes distorted
abandoned plunder
salvation came to the sleeping world, hence
for the devil's slothfulness made pence
duplicity broke itself in twain
devils freed and angels made
war in heavenly realms abound
demonic trickery, no longer purchase found
light shone down from truth above
o'er horizon, burgeoning sun commanded its wake
cast its sight upon the world
devils expired as does smoke unfurled
as do shadows in all-consuming light, unmade
and what became of that world then?

When the sun may set, we shall learn again...
What darkness shrouds, we forget, so too the pain,
for what the light sears, the darkness cools,
and what the light frees, the darkness feeds,
what the light starves, the darkness protects,
what the light feeds, the darkness drains,
what the darkness drains, the light protects,
what the light protects, the darkness hungers,
what the darkness hungers, the light favors,
what the light favors, the darkness despises,
what the darkness despises, the light understands,
for well made plans cannot thrive in darkness alone,
if the light should reveal the plans to be tainted
the zenith of sun shall burn the plagues of satan...
This site has been unwell for me for years.
I had been plagued by a bug that makes publishing my poems impossible.

I wrote an incredible poem a year ago, and lost it, due to this site's lack of integrity and sabotage of me. I emailed this site's creator and never got a response about recovering my poem, which was so vital to me that I made the effort, alas. In vain.

I wrote this poem back on August 19th.

It was a refreshing read. I hope to experience many more healing readings, and writings, like this one has been for me today.
Ira Desmond Aug 2023
The oil's spilled; the weekend’s spent.
Battering rams adorn our newest cars.
The coral's bleached, our girders bent,
and as the ash falls, drones fly on Mars.

The poker chips clank on the felt.
Sweltering mules sway drunk in bars.
A toddler falls, receives a welt,
and as the fires grow, drones fly on Mars.

I could not bear to speak the truth
when you had asked me where went the stars.
A cow sits in the kissing booth,
and as the sky blackens, drones fly on Mars.

The wind has fangs; my heart now sags.
A feral pig grunts to mass applause,
Now childish men hoist cryptic flags,
and as the crops fail, drones fly on Mars.
Zywa Jun 2023
Why are there people dreaming
of hell, a formless world
with leafless trees, beastly

people, thirsty victims
theatres where the murders are real
and of slogans written in blood?

Why do they fantasise like this
about a better life
about a new beginning?

Why are there people dreaming
of freedom, equality, fraternity
without prelates and politicians?

Why don't they sing
the song of humanity
Why

do they numb themselves
to explode
their pettiness?
Poem "Man, you should explode" (1972, Namdea Dhasal [Born near Pune, India, 1949], collection "Golpitha", 1973)

Collection "Different times"
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