Violence in our land, Where is our outrage??

 

Where is our outrage?

Where is the outrage at the violence in our land? Where did our passion and outrage go? Was it stolen by thieves in the night? or did we, did I just let it slip away because it made for an uncomfortable life.

Where is our outrage for our women and children lost in the Justice system that no longer functions?

Where is our outrage at the abusers??

Are we all so passive to authority that we are all in agreement about the King’s new clothes?

Are we waiting passively for that child to say “the Kings got no clothes on”

The Hymn of the passive male, of Souls departed, of Golden balls in the Wildman’s cage, of not daring the key theft. The world dies for such a Joseph.

With apologies to Robert Bly.

 

 

 

 

 

What the passive male needs is a little more time.

He always needs more time,

He needs a little more time not to be shrewd, not to look in the faces of the robbers when they enter the house.

He needs a little more time not to notice what other people are feeling around him,

 a little more time to listen to music.

to catch a Boxel tree plunging in the wind.

He needs a little more time to feel his entering into the world body disintegrate and to feel his avoiding the world body grow strong.

He needs time to have hurt feelings,

He needs more time to avoid talking.

He needs a little more time to live not to talk, not to be a parent, not to see the line of war approaching,

He needs a little more time not to see the abuse of women and children.

Could he have a little more time for his gratification?

He needs a little time to confirm that he is a prince

 

 

That someone stands beside him that is secretive, that is luminous, that he is that one.

He needs time to transfer all his hopes to that ideal male standing right beside him.

He needs a little more time not to respond to what others might say

He needs a little time to let the Soul open like a blade of grass.

He needs a little time to take revenge on the world, for not hearing him when he was a boy. He needs a little time to lie in bed without answering.

He needs a little time to overestimate a little.

To let an enraged women, enter his house and take away the silver he inherited from his grandfather

He needs a little more time not to be shrewd, not to look in their faces when robbers enter his house.

He needs a moment to great these men. To show them where the objects are they want to steal.

He needs time to be helpless

He needs more time to feel the numbness in his chest

He needs a little more time

 It isn’t much he needs.

He needs time to let lady Macbeth steal his candy while he sleeps in the tower room fitfully dreaming of his kingly Soul.

 

I used Dylan Thomas’s poem in a different sense, to rage against the dying light of our collective Soul. Dylan please forgive me.

 

Do not go gently into that dying light of acceptability

Old age should still burn the candle of Soul Bright.

Soul should burn and rage against the dying of Its light in the world

 

Though passive men at their end know the dark is right

Because their tongues had forked no lightning

They go so gently into the welcoming gray twilight. Of neither life nor Death.

 

Good men wave the last wave goodby

Crying how bright their frail deed might have danced on the beach of that great bay

Now we rage against the dying of our light.

Do not go gently into that gray twilight.

 

Wildmen caught the sun in its flight

Were lifted up to the heavens to twinkle bright

Some men learned too late, and they grieved it on its way.

Do not go gently into that Gray twilight

 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding light.

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay.

Rage, Rage against the dying of Souls light

 

And you my father, up there on such a sad height.

Curse now, bless now with your fierce tears I pray, against the dying of Souls light

Do not go gently into that gray twilight, rage again at the dying of the light.

 

 

Do not go gentle into that good night

By Dylan Thomas, 1951 or 1952

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.