Thomas's Monday Morning Poetry

Good morning,

Humans are funny creatures. We all live in our own little bubbles. We think that within these bubbles our problems and issues are unique. We are like horses with blinkers on: we can only look forward. What is happening peripherally is of no interest, even though it can be of great consequence.

The only real truth about us is that we are excellent at repeating history. For every person that has cheated on his lover in the past, there is someone repeating that persons actions as I write. It is as if we are genetically programmed to repeat ours and others’ mistakes while thinking that our actions are unique, while in fact all we are doing is duplicating our errors.

The bright side to this bleak picture is that for every duplicated error, there is a good deed that has been repeated. It is just a pity that the good deeds are usually forgotten in favour of remembering events that cause heartache.



A few more words from Kahlil Gibran

Seven Reprimands

I reprimanded my souls seven times.
The first time: when I attempted to exalt myself by exploiting the weak.
The second time: when I feigned a limp before those who were crippled.
The third time: when, given the choice, I elected the easy rather than the difficult.
The fourth time: when I made a mistake I consoled myself with the mistakes of others.
The fifth time: when I was docile because of fear and then claimed to be strong in patience.
The sixth time: when I held my garments upraised to avoid the mud of Life.
The seventh time: when I stood in hymnal to God and considered the singing a virtue.

I’ve quoted this author and this passage of poetry before, but it is so sublime that it is worth repeating.

The Ballad of Reading Gaol (extract)

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with hands of lust,
Some with the hands of gold;
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh;
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

Oscar Wilde