Mind Fields: Two Poems Addressing The World’s Violence

Untitiled

There is no excuse for the agony of the world.

There is no excuse for a single person to be starving.

No excuse for anyone to be without a safe home.

No excuse for children to be frightened of invisible menace.

No excuse, no excuse, no excuse.

Anyone who tells you this killing, this maiming,

this bombing is justified,

is revealing a criminal lack of imagination.

There is no excuse to be without a creative idea,

a new way to solve a problem,

no excuse, no excuse.

To be mired in the endless slavery

of historical cause and effect

is no excuse.

To be defending one’s self from oppression

is no excuse.

To be reacting to outside danger

is no excuse.

There is never an excuse

to use violence, not even to prevent greater violence.

Using violence always causes greater violence.

No excuse for the weakness of force,

no justification for violence.

We had to stop Hitler, we have to stop Bin Laden,

is that an excuse? No. Is that an explanation?

Perhaps. Must I live with this explanation?

Evidently.

Must I treat it as a rational solution to any brutality?

Never. There is no excuse.

What can I do about this insoluble problem?

I don’t know. Write poems?

Do you have any better ideas?

If you do, and it is not an excuse

for adding agony to the world,

please, please, tell me, tell everyone

right now.

Letter From The Afterlife Of A Terrorist Bomber

I thought I would be in Paradise

but I am in unspeakable hell.

The fire, the fire!

I thought it would only burn for a second,

but it keeps burning!

I thought I would lose consciousness

and wake up in heaven,

but I am stuck now for an eternity

in agony!

The screams of the innocent dying

are like poisoned darts,

lancing the exposed nerves of my inmost soul.

The tears of the bereaved in their hundreds and thousands

rain upon me like acid.

And the worst hell of all is my regret,

my infinite regret,

that I was so stupid, so gullible, so callous,

so easily swayed by insipid argument,

so readily moved to escape my living depression

by casting it upon others.

The fire, the fire! The rocket fuel

sears me for ten thousand years!

The screams and the grief that blame me, rightly,

crush me under a million tons of leaden metal and concrete!

Allah, Allah, I was not merciful, I was not compassionate,

and now when I call to you I see the grit of your robe

as you turn away from me.

I thought I would awake in Paradise.

What a dreadful dreadful mistake!

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Arthur Rosch is a novelist, musician, photographer and poet. His works are funny, memorable and often compelling. One reviewer said “He’s wicked and feisty, but when he gets you by the guts, he never lets go.” Listeners to his music have compared him to Frank Zappa, Tom Waits, Randy Newman or Mose Allison. These comparisons are flattering but deceptive. Rosch is a stylist, a complete original. His material ranges from sly wit to gripping political commentary.

Arthur was born in the heart of Illinois and grew up in the western suburbs of St. Louis. In his teens he discovered his creative potential while hoping to please a girl. Though she left the scene, Arthur’s creativity stayed behind. In his early twenties he moved to San Francisco and took part in the thriving arts scene. His first literary sale was to Playboy Magazine. The piece went on to receive Playboy’s “Best Story of the Year” award. Arthur also has writing credits in Exquisite Corpse, Shutterbug, eDigital, and Cat Fancy Magazine. He has written five novels, a memoir and a large collection of poetry. His autobiographical novel, Confessions Of An Honest Man won the Honorable Mention award from Writer’s Digest in 2016.

More of his work can be found at www.artrosch.com

Photos at https://500px.com/p/artsdigiphoto?view=photos

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