Who would mourn him?
A man who will always and forever
be remembered for the killings.
Five young girls,
with shots that wounded their community
and pierced their carefully preserved peace.
Carnage unimaginable to them,
the door to the outside world
thrown open,
an act seemingly unforgivable.
Who would mourn him?
They would.
Of course.
It’s who they are.
And so on a peaceful day in Pennsylvania,
at the funeral of an outsider –
the funeral of a monster –
they gathered to mourn him.
To mourn him.
A strange sight to our eyes.
How can we regard this?
What to make of this example?
The door was thrown open.
They were forced to see out.
And we got to see in.
Be nice to think so angel. I talk a big game but these people live it and they live it every day of their lives.
It’s funny. I grew up not far from Amish country. As kids we always felt they were fairly clueless. Now I look at their actions as examples to live by.
I’ve noticed that you don’t post much in any other forums Rainey…
Is there room to discuss the possibility of your emergence in other forums at this time?
Or will this wait for the future?
Well I do follow along on certain threads from time to time. But participate in the discussions? I don’t know. I’m not much of a philosopher, really. Too, I can imagine myself becoming bored after awhile, making the same arguments over and over again. Probably bore everybody else as well. After awhile one says all one really wants to say. That’s what I would imagine happening anyway. Poetry, on the other hand, seems limitless to me. You can be free and unbounded by the direction of any specific conversation or train of thought.
The best analogy I can think of is sailing. In college I was on our sailing team, participating in regattas against other schools. I like competition, but I really grew to hate the racing. You had to sail a course, towards buoys and markers. So many times I just wanted to throw the tiller over and head straight out to sea, taking whatever course appealed to me as I went.
So perhaps, then, here in Creative Writing lies my best way of expression at this time. Maybe that will change, who knows. In the meantime, as I said, I do follow along. The learning never stops and there are some damn smart people around here with fascinating ideas. You’re one them, Thirst. I’ll make it a point to follow your forgiveness thread. Looks like a good one.
A person with your talents is sorely missed in the other forums.
However, I completely understand your hesitation to get involved.
ILP does have a lot of redundancy.
Bu I believe that you could say the same thing in a million different ways…
And I, for one, am excited at those possibilities.
You know, Thirst, this issue of forgiveness is near and dear to me. I was reminded this week of a book called The Sunflower, by famed Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal. Wiesenthal recounts how, in a German concentration camp, he had the opportunity to forgive one of his Nazi captors at the man’s deathbed.
On a whim I searched ILP and found an interesting discussion about The Sunflower here:
Some wiser folks than myself discuss forgiveness, remembering, and justice. All of these things sort of tie together. Anyway, I just found it an interesting discussion, for whatever it’s worth.
Some have said that we are incapable of forgiving others until we have forgiven ourselves… but to do that we have to let go of our self-inflicted pain if we are to ever forgive those who have hurt us.
There is poetry in this somewhere. Maybe some day…
THE EGOIST by Turgenev
(You won’t find this in any poetry anthology)
He had every qualification for becoming the scourge of his family.
He was born healthy, was born wealthy, and throughout the whole of his long life,
continuing to be wealthy and healthy, he never committed a single sin, never fell into a
single sin, never fell into a single error, never once made a slip or blunder.
He was irreproachably conscientious ! . . . And complacent in the sense of his own
conscientiousness, he crushed every one with it, his family, his friends and his acquaintances,
His conscientiousness was his capital . . . And he exacted an exorbitant interest for it.
His conscientiousness gave him the right to be merciless, and to do no good deeds
beyond what it dictated to him ; and he was merciless, and did no good . . . for good that
is dictated is no good at all.
He took no interest in any one except his own exemplary self, and was genuinely
indignant if others did not take as studious an interest in it !
At the same time he did not consider himself an egoist, and was particularly sever in
censuring, and keen in detecting egoists and egoism.
To be sure he was. The egoism of another was a check on his own.
Not recognising the smallest weakness in himself he did not understand, did not tolerate
any weakness in any one. He did not, in fact, understand any one or any thing, since he
was all, on all sides, above and below, before and behind, encircled by himself.
He did not even understand the meaning of forgiveness. He had never had to forgive
himself. . . . What inducement could he have to forgive others?
Before the tribunal of his own conscience, before the face of his own God, he, this marvel, this
monster of virtue, raised his eyes heavenwards, and with clear unfaltering
voice declared, ‘ Yes, I am an exemplary, a truly moral man ! ’
He will repeat these words on his deathbed, and there will be no throb even then in his
heart of stone—in that heart without stain or blemish !
Oh, hideousness of self-complacent, unbending, cheaply bought virtue ; thou art almost
more revolting than the frank hideousness of vice !
