- Books, Literature, and Writing
Writing poetry - The Cradle of Humankind - A Poem
Is this poetry, this flow of words unempeded by conscious evaluation whilst writing?
Is this really poetry? I do not know. I suspect it is, for it came to me without aforethought. It came from feeling deep within. I just sat and wrote. One could almost say that it was automatic writing. Here it is for you. It's about us - Humankind.
I am he who cast the fire-hardened spear at the wooly mammoth. I am he who, with implements crude, turned the sod to plant the early grain. I rose at dawn and marched upon my enemy carrying stone axe. Then later, with bronze, then iron sword, bow, musket and auo-loading gun, brought ten thousand years of war.
I am he he rubbed the sticks and struck the flint
I am he who rubbed the sticks and struck the flint to make fire; who built the mud-brick cottage, and took the skin of the wild beast to make his coat. Then, later, clad resplentent, laid the woven cloak at Elizabeth's Royal's feet. Now, in pressured space-suit I cling to shining orb high above the earth which spawned my form.
I am he who gazed with awe
I am he who gazed in awe, who slew the lamb; who implored the Sun-god to send the rain. I am the singer of hymns, the prayer of prayers, the maker of the silent, mystic hour, the wonderer of "What is mind?" and "Who am I."
From the dust of the earth came I
From the dust of the earth came I, filled with the breath of the All-Seeing-Eye, the Knower of all the known. From sensation to self-awareness, from the swamp to the forest green, to the rustic hut to brazen metropolis I grew; to leap from the ground to the sky, and from the sky to the stars. I grow...forever. For I am God's creation - Humankind.
I can claim to have actually put pen to paper on this or, rather, fingers to keyboard. But as many a poet knows, my ego self didn't compose it. What arrives through the mind in these instances comes from a place unknown.
I hope you enjoyed the poem Writing Poetry - The Cradle of Humankind.