On Heroism

The days of the epic-warrior type of hero are gone. No more will there be lone warriors who vanquish whole armies with nothing but sword and shield. Technology has seen to that, and weaponry takes primacy over physical strength.

But yet we love to hear the stories of heroes, be they fictional or real. And this is because all heros have some element in their character, that we identify with, or wish to identify with. It could be nobility, or wisdom, or justice, but I think that it is courage. The lack of fear in the face of overwhelming odds is something I personally know I would not have, were I to be placed in such situations.

But one doesn't need to be on a battlefield to show courage. I keep on forgetting that, but I know that courage can be, and indeed should be present in every moment of your life. We can all be heroes, were we to stick to our principles every minute of every day (Of course, it would help were I able to remember them every minute if every day). Surely every decision, every moment has the choice between black and white, and good and bad. And if the good choice is the harder one, then courage is required, in whatever amount.

And that's what I lack. When I live life in a sort of automatic mode, not thinking. When I'm conscious of what I'm doing, yet take the easy path.

Yes, that's what I lack. And so heroism will elude me.

...

I ran away to find myself
and found myself out of depth
I wander now, hopeless and lost
Not knowing what I want the most
Full aware of what I leave behind
And wishing I could time rewind
I got lucky, using the sword of reason
to break free of this world's prison
So I've given up all that I have
Now all that I have is all that I am
I will wander far and wide
yet from myself wish to hide

But at long last, this journey ends.
And I find the place where all mend
Now I see my master's golden dome
Here is where I will make my home

...

The night is old, the day wasted,
from these hours, no success tasted.
Brimming with potential, moments fly by
all of it fruitless, as I stare at night's sky.
The moon has waxed and waned again
and where I was, I still remain.
I reflect now on great feats never done,
Inner battles not won, projects not begun.
The sands of time slip through my fingers
less and less each moment lingers
I'd wish for it all back, a second take,
though knowing me, the same mistakes I'd make.
Yet knowing what I do, hope doesn't falter
That I can, and will, end days better
Perhaps tomorrow I will do more
Than leave a footprint in the snow

...

The onlooker saw in a moment of stillness
Breifly glimpsing a war without witness
A conflict of sorts in the heart's way,
Lasting as it has, forever and a day...

Fire and ice do battle in my core
Elemental forces forever at war
Impetuous red takes on calm blue
Passion's thrust versus reason's edge
Equally matched against powerful foe
Neither seeing beyond their own hue
Both ignoring the eternal truth
In order to do that which is right
Both must settle, and serve the light
If not friends, at least both should cease
And complement the other in search of peace

So glimpsed he, in one moment flat
gaining understanding in a flash
Yet still loath to put it to good use
To be a messenger of good he refused
So he left, turning his back to the war
And let them fight forevermore.

Poetry Is

(I tried to write this in the form of a poem, but the complex ideas therein don't lend themselves easily to poetry, and I am not wordsmith enough to craft it myself - not yet anyway - so I'm trying it in the form of prose instead. Maybe I'll rewrite this as poetry later on - there's something fulfilling about using poetry to express what poetry is)

Poetry is....
... crystallised speech.

If words in conversation easily flow, then in poetry, they are frozen and carefully sculpted.

And the analogies run deeper than initially thought. For the more a poet uses rhyme, rhythm and meter, the more regular it becomes, and so can be compared with a flawless gem, whereas the less one uses it, the less regular the end product will be, though even then in some cases there will always be beauty, as sometimes the uncut forms of gems sparkle as well. And as always, in cases where the regular nature of some gems serve only to highlight through contrast the chaotic elements elsewhere, so it is in poetry as well, where regular verse serves to contrast with and highlight irregular verse. And also, it might be that in looking at the way a gem is crafted and cut may leave some clues as to the identity of the craftsman, so it is with poetry, where every poet has their own style which naturally comes forth in their expression.

Finally, there is something more holistic in the analogy to consider as well, and this applies to all mediums of expression. This is the dichotomy of what the content is, versus how it is expressed. Consider the poem that has perfect rhyme, rhythm, and meter, but has nothing to say, versus a poem that has some important message, but is badly shaped. The analogy again fits here perfectly, where the perfectly formed but fruitless poem can be likened to an exquisitely shaped glass crystal, and the badly formed but valuable one can be likened to a raw, yet unshaped gem. And here, as always, what one wants is a perfectly shaped gem - a poem both complete in how it is structured as well as the message it contains.

But also, consider the following snippet, part of my failed attempt the poem, but which I include here for capturing a totally different facet of poetry:

...crafted, or hewn, from primitive ore,
words and feelings never expressed before
or so we feel, and come to believe,
not knowing that experiences past we relive
poetry capturing everything anew
as if we alone have tasted life's brew
not knowing others have seen it too
and in their own way captured it true
life goes on; the actors change;
the story remains the same...

50 points given to the first person to correctly guess what I am trying to say.