The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame.
Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.
I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.
But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own -- but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.
The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it's late. And the truth is laborious.
Czeslaw Milosz
Hiya! Your poem made me think of this:
ReplyDeleteRing the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
Leonard Cohen's Anthem
Your poem made me write this:
ReplyDeleteInvestigating myself from a distance. Is it really me looking at myself?
Keep staring into my own eyes.
Keep searching. What is hidden in there? What do I need to hide?
Repeating the history of my stupidity.
Comfortably hidden behind this history of anger and regret.
A mountain of judgement, I keep telling myself it is too steep to climb.
Why am I so afraid? What if I see the wild and indecent in me?
Or what if I see the divine?
That what diminishes the distinctions between you and me?