"It is bitter--bitter," he answered; "But I like it Because it is bitter, And because it is my heart."
Stephen Crane, The Black Riders and Other Lines, III
All of the poems in this collection of poetry are good, but number three is the one I've seen quoted most often, and for a good reason.
A little context: The narrator of this poem sees a creature in the dessert eating its own heart. The narrator asks, "Is it good, friend?"
What it means to me: There is more than one interpretation for this poem obviously, but one thing that it represents to me is a coming to terms with the shadow part of the psyche, the parts of ourselves that we find repulsive or don't want to acknowledge. The creature finds what it is and what it is doing very bitter, but likes likes it because the acknowledgement is a type of healing, or at least an honesty. The narrator (and the reader) watches and perhaps considers accepting their own shadow aspects.
You have every reason to fear robots, my friend...This little " Robot pome " by Jason Christie should validate your necessary fear : "Why do I have to be one of millions? Why can't I just be a lonely little one, in search of a zero to call my own?..." A blue Robot..? Yikes !!!
Too late, my time has come Sends shivers down my spine Body's aching all the time Goodbye, everybody I've got to go Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth Mama, oh (Anyway the wind blows) I don't want to die Sometimes wish I'd never been born at all
Let us remember...that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both.
I should think that those that go to poetry at all, would be the least-likely to destroy anything... Here is a snippet from Yeats I find applies to some I know: " Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy."...
Yes..we are indeed the music makers...The music of life, rhythmic, cyclical, enduring...What has allowed us, as poets, to endure this..? To soak in life and expel it through verbal imagery..? Is there a poetic gene..? This need to color life with such spontaneous remarks ..? An inner sobbing at this life of such injustices, or an inner laughter at the absurdity of life's challenges..? I don't know the answer...I only know that I know nothing, and knowing nothing allows me to accept all knowledge, without prejudice...Truth will always out... Another snippet : “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” Oscar Wilde...
Also known as REMF's... Epic poetry has pretty much diminished , Milton's " Paradise Lost " being the last epic poem of any real significance... What was your impression of Hercules, the man, not the warrior..?
Hey, aware !!...Been out of town the last couple weeks...Had to see the ocean again...I truly miss the beach scene...Arizona is wonderful, but the call of the sea birds, the roar of the surf, and the moonlight glancing off the bay is missed terribly... I'll be catching up on my fav poets ( where you rank very high ) in the next couple days...Go well my friend...Larry