View From Above – Photo: L. Weikel
Random Discoveries Again
I wrote last night about two poems I came upon a few days ago, discarded in the tall grass and weeds beside the road. The question is whether these so-called random discoveries*, again, are indeed random or are somehow, in some way, orchestrated by consciousness we just can’t yet prove.
I make no secret of the answer my experiences would seem to support. And just because I can’t prove the existence of the consciousness behind such discoveries does not disprove its existence.
The bottom line is that I choose to expand my awareness to include the numinous. My life is immeasurably enriched by my choice (and capacity) to soften my gaze and thereby see a little bit more of what surrounds and infuses our world and, indeed, each and every one of us. Embracing the possibility that these discoveries are anything but random increases my risk, perhaps, of being perceived with ridicule or pity. But I’ve reached the point where I throw my lot in with the magic I know is Truth.
With that, I hereby proffer for your contemplation the other poem by Charles Bukowski that managed to find its way into my life. Torn out of a book and crumpled up. Tossed into the weeds along a single lane country road, only to be discovered by a 62 year old woman and her Boston Terrier; these words were published 55 years ago.
The Genius of the Crowd
There is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
Human being to supply any given army on any given day
And the best at murder are those who preach against it
And the best at hate are those who preach love
And the best at war finally are those who preach peace
Those who preach god, need god
Those who preach peace do not have peace
Those who preach peace do not have love
Beware the preachers
Beware the knowers
Beware those who are always reading books
Beware those who either detest poverty
Or are proud of it
Beware those quick to praise
For they need praise in return
Beware those who are quick to censor
They are afraid of what they do not know
Beware those who seek constant crowds for
They are nothing alone
Beware the average man the average woman
Beware their love, their love is average
Seeks average
But there is genius in their hatred
There is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
To kill anybody
Not wanting solitude
Not understanding solitude
They will attempt to destroy anything
That differs from their own
Not being able to create art
They will not understand art
They will consider their failure as creators
Only as a failure of the world
Not being able love fully
They will believe your love incomplete
And then they will hate you
And their hatred will be perfect
Like a shining diamond
Like a knife
Like a mountain
Like a tiger
Like hemlock
Their finest art.
*Speaking of random discoveries, as I was proofreading this post and re-reading the link to Charles Bukowski, I finally saw that Henry Charles Bukowski’s actual birth name was Heinrich Karl Bukowski. Hence, in a manner of speaking, this literally was a message from Karl. Gotta love it.
(T-160)
This poem is very thought provoking. I can imagine it being discussed in a classroom or a poetry class.
Yes, now that I’ve read up on Bukowski, I suspect his body of work has definitely generated many a college course discussion (and probably even classes just on him)!