O, Stupid God, again I make my plea
That you will turn your gaze away from me;
Let your eyes look elsewhere; leave me be.
O, Stupid God, please do not bless my friends
Save it is with your absence or your end;
Others ask for you to them defend.
O, Stupid God, my labors please ignore
And all the deeds I do, I you implore;
Those that I do, I know, would but you bore.
O, Stupid God, my family please preserve
And from your course against them sudden swerve;
Let them your absence have that they deserve.
Let all the hymns sung to your praise be ceased
And all who suffer at your hands be eased.
Picture not related. I just think it’s pretty. Photo by Tom Fisk on Pexels.com
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What’s the point of all of this
Really
Sitting in these stifling rooms
Day after day
Learning things our older brothers and sisters learned
Our cousins and their friends
About how the world works
The way things are supposed to be
When it’s clear that
The world doesn’t work that way anymore
If it ever did
Skills that might’ve served once
But’ve been replaced by machines and software
AI putting out paintings and poems
Progressive generation of music
Notes that never could’ve been heard before
All the things they said would make us better people
Given over to machines
While it’s clear we’re being trained as cogs ourselves
Wheels meant to turn and go nowhere
But just feed things through so
Someone else can have them
And be swapped out when we can do no more
Never so clean in real life… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Is this really all there is to it all
Making those of us who still might’ve had futures
Something to enjoy
Into the shapes filled by those a few classes ahead
Bullets in chambers to be fired at enemies whose only crimes are
Different colored skin
Different modes of dress
Different prayers lifted up
Or none
Or sitting on something someone else wants
But doesn’t want to pay for
Themselves
Unless they spend the melted and remade metals
They think we ought to be
Coins cast at some problem or another
‘cause cash is king and they want to show off their crowns
Do they really only want us to fill their bodybags
Graves they make us dig ‘cause they won’t lift a shovel
There’s someone else to do that for them
Of course
Or their pockets with the work they want done
Don’t want to pay to have done
Any more than they can help
‘cause they don’t think they have enough
Even when they have more than they could ever spend
More dollars than days of their lives and ours
?
It seems that way
Learning the lessons they leave for us to take
Making us machines they can program as they please
So we don’t question
Or if we question
Keep it to ourselves
‘cause the pasts they push forward
Seem short on complaint and long on compliance
I was just following orders
Doing what the boss said I ought to do
A commoner refrain
‘cause if we say anything
We are weak and entitled
Even if we are the ones they want to carry them forward
And their bags of money
Swelling with what has been stolen
And none of us want to look weak in front of the rest
‘cause we know one of the things we’ve been taught to do
Sharks in the sea and wolves in the woods
Is to find the ones in the herd that struggle
And take them out
And it ain’t like most of us keep ourselves from doing it
Rather than letting it be done to us
Of course
You can’t say anything about this
Have to hold the line they give you
So you don’t find yourself out of work
The work you thought you wanted to do
Before you found out what you would have to do
How it keeps changing
Demanding more of you
Offering no more
You’ve got your own kids to feed
Maybe
Or a cat or something
‘cause we’ve heard the folks your age and older talk about
How nobody can afford it anymore
Who couldn’t already
We listen even when you think we don’t hear you
And want you to be honest even when you can’t
Safely
But it ain’t like we’re safe
Is it
?
Seems like we see it every day
On those screens we supposedly stare at too much
But if the world’s so scary as you say
Why do you blame us for turning away from it
Toward something where we have
Something that seems like control
?
It ain’t like the screen makes us do another drill
Leaves us in a lockdown
Look
You can’t say anything
But we ain’t caught quite yet
We can still speak up
At least a little
Maybe only here
Maybe only now
But still
And if there’s only the one chance to be heard
Before the echoes fade into the void
Or grinding gears drown them all out
Drown us all out
Or the rat-a-tat-tat of clicking keyboards
Beats out the tattoo of our subsumation
Then let us scream and be heard
Even if it’s disruptive now
‘cause we ain’t going to have the chance again
One way or another
And it ain’t like what gets taught here matters after
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They fall upon themselves and shove to ground
The others running with them, drive them down
And think that they alone can be around
The Stupid God enthroned in filth and muck.
There ever is more room for them to tuck
Themselves into that Stupid God may suck
Upon their hearts and minds as they were teats,
And such thin milk as will flow thence it eats,
And eating, swells to overflow its seat.
Did they their own alone thus treat, ‘twere well,
But Stupid God’s call is instead the knell
Rung out to call all others into hells
Not made by them, but made in their despite,
Drowning reason’s day in folly’s night.
It’s not so nice as this… Photo by Juan Salamanca on Pexels.com
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It is getting louder again The sound of onrushing waters Drowning out the sound of drowning Masking water rising to sweep away The very fountain from which it upwells Swallow it into sinking depths Into which no sun can shine Into which the shit of luckier creatures far above falls Unceasing snow in every season
Bubble, bubble… Photo by Gabriel Peter on Pexels.com
Maybe something will fall from on high that is worth having But if it does It will do so ungently And find the forehead’s center Splattering messily or Thudding soddenly
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Because they fear what they do not control
Because they fear what they do control
Because they know what bows to them today
May stand taller than they tomorrow
And they fear to be looked down upon for more reasons than
Shame at growing bald
Because they know what kneels before them tonight
Might suddenly bite down
Take a small mouthful away instead of
A tablespoon of lukewarm soup
Because they know that they do not know
And they do not want others to know as much
Because they know that they are not enough
They do as they do
Reaching out one hand to grip a bar they think was
Planted long before and not realizing that
It has never stood as straight as they see it, that
It is bent and curved and knurled
As any can find who bestir themselves to seek
And go a bit from where they began
Some need no cutting down to size… Photo by Nishant Aneja on Pexels.com
They do not want to be so moved
Clearly
And so they keep their hands upon that bar
Clinging to it as the world will move them up and down
Their palms sliding
As they must
Which would not be so bad if they did not force so many
Not only to observe
But to take part in their little shows
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Around this time last year, I posted a translation I did of The Dream of the Rood. It’s been on my mind again in recent weeks, partly because it is the time of year that it is, and partly because of some other things going on about which I might comment at some point or another; I am not yet certain. Today, I have some leisure to attend to it, having been given an unexpected day off from my regular job, something for which I am grateful; I rather enjoy writing, however good or otherwise I might be at the task, and the thinking that undergirds it has its charms, so that the opportunity to engage in both is a welcome thing.
For many, especially in this part of the world, the day serves as a reminder of sacrifice and the necessary costs of salvation, prepaid for those who, like the dreamer in the poem, are aftercomers “stained with sins, / badly wounded with sins.” (I think I could polish the translation more, but that is another project for another time, one of many that might be imagined.) Much is made of the magnitude of the sacrifice, of the agony that was endured by those crucified in the Roman style, and better theologians and historians than I can speak more eloquently and accurately to the same.
For my own part, as often, I find myself coming up with questions that I expect would be heterodoxies to voice–if not more. Ideas about their answers abound for me, offering other projects that might be undertaken; there is never a shortage of them, although there are shortages of my time and talents to attend to them all. (I would seem to have internalized humilitas to some extent, both sincerely and otherwise.) But if I were to voice one idea, one that might not be so divergent as all that: the story so widely celebrated today, the self-sacrificial sin-taking for others’ redemption, speaks to many to say that there is some hope, and that even amid those who would abuse laws to persecute those whom they perceive as threats to their power, there is some sympathy to be found.
I am not sure, certainly, how far to follow that idea, how far it can be followed. That there are limits to any such thing, I am well aware; indeed, one of the standard questions I pose in the lesson plans I still write is to find the point of failure and interrogate it. But I am no longer at the front of the classroom, so it is not for me to push others to such contemplations. It is for me, however, to conduct them myself, and a solemn observance–even in advance of a joyous occasion–offers opportunity for such things.
I remain grateful for such things.
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Something about sitting under a springtime sun Staring into the open blue sky In advance of the evening’s enjoyment Prompts pondering on what has passed to this point How many such days Or sultry summer afternoons and their languid evenings Or autumn nights warmed by flickering flames and fragrant smoke Or winter mornings spent snuggled beneath blankets Have been lost to labor for others’ gain For no better reasons than another’s profit, And the scraps from their table Copper crumbs falling from crackling lips That grimace as any other’s gain
The most benign…
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Gone out and partied instead of
Staying in and studying
Slacked off and coasted instead of
Showing up and working hard
Made friends and talked to people instead of
Sitting alone in the room with books
Played outside or lounged about instead of
Taking the job and
Showing up for every holiday
…and never was. Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
But I did not
They told me not to
Said doing as I did would lead to success
And it might be called success to be
Working in a field for which I never trained
Working to pay off the debts that cluster in my name
Working so that others may profit all the more
Working day and night each day and night
But if this is success
What must failure be?
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The jewels upon her dress are losing their luster And the dyes of its fabric begin to fade Its warp and weave fraying and growing ragged On her chalk-like rolling swellings as He lays his castings out longer and harder daily
Picture not related Photo by Alex Conchillos on Pexels.com
Worse Of course Are the clinging things Bloating up with blood on which they feast Clamoring for more And turning away from the sight of the sky as they beset her
Still She is beloved Deeply and by many And the thought of leaving her Though such parting might be needed Is no easy thing
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Elliott RWI 