Hermann Hesse's  glass bead game  had its part to play

As did chemotherapy and surgery and a day

When I walked across a Lancaster field 

A skylark rose so fast I froze.

But that was when I was  young and foolish, and, by the way, the wench is dead

I have an affection for the past

that can not last 

and a rhyming chiming mind

that has nothing  to do with a series of dreams

that leave me sweating and afraid

this side of the grave.

I was made by the holocaust of the Jews    I bear the new stigmata.

Still  I crumble to know

What my ancestors knew


what is old and what is new and just what the fuck are we supposed to do?


◄ Moses of Khorene

As if you had a choice ►



Wed 7th Apr 2021 09:21

This speaks to me of a resistance to follow our ancestral lineage, an almost refusal to comply with an inherited subconscious familial memory.

The title references the rebellious streak first uttered apparently by Satan himself. I have respect for any character who opposes ultimate power, that would certainly include any rebel angel/entity who stood against a tyrant God.

The final line is a killer, no matter what we think and come to conclude we can never be certain of what is right, just how much is determined by our individualism and how much is dictated by what we inherit from our forbears?

I am interested in the writings of the offspring of men who have committed "evil" deeds and how they come to live with that burden...."What the fuck are we supposed to do" a question which is today being asked by some individuals and nations alike regarding their tyrannical histories.

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John Marks

Wed 7th Apr 2021 03:08

Thank you Keith for your kind words.

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best day and night to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.

e.e. cummings

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keith jeffries

Wed 7th Apr 2021 00:10

This poem has a real appeal for me as it of the past, which you John, recall and write so well about. Snippets light flames of remembrance as I read this poem, "When I walked across a Lancaster field" and "I was made by the holocaust of the Jews I bear the new stigmata" and your final summing up which leaves the reader fully aware of his impotence and place in the events of history.

The age of the Lancaster and what is old and what is new brings us to realise the futility of what is past and what lies ahead. Our presence and participation are irrelevant, as if mere bystanders. And of course what the fuck should we do?

A poem to articulate where we are in all of this.
Thank you


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