Being human has its side effects (read the small print)
Where are the great myths of our age –
hiding truth within their all too human stories?
In their absence, scientific research
has wondrous tales yet to tell…
Jon, the renowned professor of psychology
and not averse to self-examination and experiment,
took Paxil – Prozac’s cousin – for eight
adventurous weeks.
In week five – ‘the world changed’…
his heavy work load, his insecurities
as an untenured professor,
vanished like magic; changes which he’d wished
to make for himself for years,
happened overnight – he loosened up,
he lightened up, he accepted his mistakes
and did not dwell on them –
who would not want to be a Prof like he?
But… a side effect: names began to elude him –
‘Hi! ’ and ‘Hi there! ’ were all his students got
out on campus, in the morning classroom …
and along with that, the subterfuges –
how can you ask a student whom you’ve known for years
to give their opinion… er, point, smile,
hope they’re watching.. yes, you…
and facts too started to recede –
just out of reach on the top shelf of
the mind’s rich library, memory’s repository…
Greek tragedy would have a word,
a scene, a moral, for it:
the Fates had claimed their own…
Nemesis had struck; Icarus’ wings had melted,
Prometheus’ insult to the gods avenged…
or in our scientific terms, a brain on Paxil, Prozac,
has more serotonin in certain synapses,
so the neurons fire more often…
The celebrated young Professor
stopped taking the pills; five weeks later,
the memory returned; as did the worries
(security of tenure threatened even more
by Professors who can’t even remember
what they profess to profess…) .
Mnemosyne, goddess of memory,
bestowed one gift alone on Prof:
he remembered just how he had been those weeks;
as certain Greeks, it’s said,
remembered like a dream
the Golden Age which they never
might recapture, but only tell of
in myths and suchlike tales
of truth and goodness; beauty too..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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8 Weeks
8 weeks to live
8 weeks to die
8 weeks is all they had
8 weeks to do the things they never did
8 weeks of fighting
8 weeks of trying to fit everything in
8 weeks of pain, suffering, and confusion
8 weeks of faking a smile
8 weeks of repetition
8 weeks of knowing they were nearing the end
8 weeks of love from friends and family
8 weeks…the shortest/longest, most hurtful/helpful weeks of their lives
8 weeks later…knowing they’ll never be able to do the things they’ve always wanted to
8 weeks later…now realizing he’ll never see her walk, at graduation nor down the aisle
8 weeks later…close friends and family now in shambles
8 weeks later…close friends and family never closer
8 weeks later…here we are
poem by Anthony Martello
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The Dog's Name I Remember
I spoke to him for a brief while just a few weeks ago
And he had with him on a leash his border collie 'Joe'
And today i met them on the street i stopped to say hello
But the man's name I'd forgotten and the dog's name i did know.
When we exchanged brief pleasantries he called me by my name
And he wished me a nice weekend and i wished him the same
I could not ask him what's your name? 'twould put me on the spot
The dog's name i remembered and the man's name I'd forgot.
A human being is always more important than a dog
And a dog has the same status as a rabbit or a frog
And an animal could never be compared to human kind
But when I searched my memory the dog's name i did find.
I met him on the street today and he called me by my name
And he wished me a nice weekend and i wished him the same
And he seems a nice enough man but it bothers me a lot
That his dog's name i remember and his i have forgot.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The 'Truth
How do we know we are speaking the truth.
Because we got it from a 'reliable' source,
And who told you it was a 'reliable' source.
Ha, Is there any thing that is really called the truth.
For, every 'truth' told in this twisted and sinister world,
A lie is invented, concocted, told.
And when a question is asked, and the truth is required,
And if told, many events, considered dire,
Happen in response,
A white lie is told.
But the whitest lie, considered the truthful lie,
Thought up by those considered wise and selfless,
Is really the darkest, blackest, most deceiving lies of all.
Over time stories, true stories, turn to myths, myths to legends.
so why not lies, white lies too.
Centuries, years, maybe even weeks and days,
Turns the most deceiving and evil lies into the 'truth'.
So I come back to my original question,
But don't misconstrue my words,
For I dear not defy the truth,
The truth, so rare, that passes us unnoticed, unseen, undetected,
The rare truth that exists in this dark, sinister world.
So yes,
How do we know we are speaking the truth.
The truth, the truth, the lie.
poem by Michael Devenish
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The Lying Truth
How do we know we are speaking the truth.
Because we got it from a 'reliable' source,
And who told you it was a 'reliable' source.
Ha, Is there any thing that is really called the truth.
For, every 'truth' told in this twisted and sinister world,
A lie is invented, concocted, told.
And when a question is asked, and the truth is required,
And if told, many events, considered dire,
Happen in response,
A white lie is told.
But the whitest lie, considered the truthful lie,
Thought up by those considered wise and selfless,
Is really the darkest, blackest, most deceiving lies of all.
Over time stories, true stories, turn to myths, myths to legends.
so why not lies, white lies too.
Centuries, years, maybe even weeks and days,
Turns the most deceiving and evil lies into the 'truth'.
So I come back to my original question,
But don't misconstrue my words,
For I dear not defy the truth,
The truth, so rare, that passes us unnoticed, unseen, undetected,
The rare truth that exists in this dark, sinister world.
So yes,
How do we know we are speaking the truth.
The truth, the truth, the lie.
poem by Michael Devenish
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Science is Unscientific
The Professor rose from his chair.
He moved the book to the middle
Of the table as he stood up.
"Now, listen! " he said in an amicable voice.
"Science prides itself in being factual,
objective, precise, unbiased, detached
and verifiable, free from introversion,
a way of knowing things without added colours
and portraying accurately the physical world
in its own light".
The Turtle was sipping his ginger ale.
"Oh, this description of science is nothing
but a myth", he said. "As I see it,
even the most magnificent accomplishments
of science involve emotions,
an individual sense of wonder and curiosity,
the psychological experience of the rapturous
and the mystical. Consequently,
a paradoxical and built in property
of science concerns
its own unscientific disposition.
And therefore, in my opinion,
science is thoroughly unscientific."
"Nonsense", the professor objected.
"If science were really unscientific,
as you claim, it could not produce
nuclear energy, airplanes, or computers.
And it could not put
astronauts on the moon".
"Well, I indeed never stop to wonder,
How is it possible that with so little knowledge
humans can accomplish so much? "
the Turtle said.
And then he added:
"But, you should not
confuse science with technology".
"I don't get your point", the Professor said,
"because you still did not provide me with
a good justification of your negative view
of science".
"Look! Science stands on very shaky
theoretical foundations", the Turtle explained.
This is so due to its reduction
of the concrete whole
to incomplete abstractions. Ironically,
the more scientific science tries to be,
the less scientific it becomes.
Science is rational and logical but the
universe, which it investigates is not.
We cannot separate ourselves
from the world outside.
Therefore, an objective investigation
of actuality ought to incorporate
the subjective experience.
The depiction of reality must be total.
Otherwise it cannot be truly scientific.
Mind you, ignoring the dominant
subjective realm of existence does not
make the world more objective.
Imagine, for example, a computer
that tries to understand
the human world without understanding
the human mind and human emotions".
A moment of silence ensued.
The Professor sank into his thoughts.
The Turtle took another sip
from the ginger ale.
"I'm not sure",
the Professor said eventually,
"that it would be a good thing
evolving a computer to a level
in which it would understand
such human qualities as humour, concern,
loyalty, compassion, love and anger.
I wonder if such a cybernetic device
would be our servant or our master."
poem by Paul Hartal
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Librarian
A licentious university English professor
Who goes to a library not to read exactly?
This nutty professor instead of reading
Who stays in a fantasy with the beautiful lass?
He spent his entire lonely life as a bachelor.
She got married to one of his students.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Evil Created by God?
Challenged with this university question,
One researched Truth's 'whole confession.'
How many, to such a question, might dare say yes;
If God created evil then He is evil, one might guess.
But, then, one student did profoundly asked:
'Tell me professor, does cold exist to last...? '
The professor replied, 'Of course it exists.'
What was this brassy student's logic, or gist?
Amazingly, the bold student retorted, 'That's not true.'
'With laws of physics, cold is the absence of heat (for you) .'
All can succumb to a proven study, as energy will transmit.
Cold does not exist; the word only describes how we feel, to fit.
The calm student continued, 'Sir, does darkness exist? '
The confident professor retorted, 'Of course it does.'
The student replied, 'Again, Sir, that's not right;
Darkness is actually the absence of the Light.'
Newton 's prism is used to break light into colours of aura.
Wavelengths cannot measure an unilluminated area.
The light's ray can break a world of darkness, illuminating it.
Darkness is termed to describe the absence of light, present.
Finally the youth asked, 'Sir, does evil exist? '
A bit unsure the man said, 'Of course (not wanting to resist) .'
At last the youth replied, 'Evil does not exist Sir (neath God's rod) .'
Evil does not exist 'unto itself, ' it is simply the absence of God.'
'God did not create evil, He created beings with free-choice.'
The youth was Albert Einstein; I am 'only relating his voice.'
poem by ArmourQuill Hunter
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Fables should be taught as fables, myths as myths, and miracles as poetic fancies. To teach superstitions as truths is a most terrible thing. The child mind accepts and believes them, and only through great pain and perhaps tragedy can he be in after years relieved of them. In fact, men will fight for a superstition quite as quickly as for a living truth - often more so, since a superstition is so intangible you cannot get at it to refute it, but truth is a point of view, and so is changeable.
Sestina Otiosa
Our great work, the Otia Merseiana,
Edited by learned Mister Sampson,
And supported by Professor Woodward,
Is financed by numerous Bogus Meetings
Hastily convened by Kuno Meyer
To impose upon the Man of Business.
All in vain! The accomplished Man of Business
Disapproves of Otia Merseiana,
Turns his back on Doctor Kuno Meyer;
Cannot be enticed by Mister Sampson,
To be present at the Bogus Meetings,
Though attended by Professor Woodward.
Little cares the staid Professor Woodward:
He, being something of a man of business,
Knows that not a hundred Bogus Meetings
To discuss the Otia Merseiana
Can involve himself and Mister Sampson
In the debts of Doctor Kuno Meyer.
So the poor deluded Kuno Meyer,
Unenlightened by Professor Woodward --
Whom, upon the word of Mister Sampson,
He believes to be a man of business
Fit to run the Otia Merseiana --
Keeps on calling endless Bogus Meetings.
Every week has now its Bogus Meetings,
Punctually convened by Kuno Meyer
In the name of Otia Merseiana:
Every other week Professor Woodward
Takes his place, and, as a man of business,
Audits the accounts with Mister Sampson.
He and impecunious Mister Sampson
Are the mainstay of the Bogus Meetings;
But the alienated Man of Business
Cannot be allured by Kuno Meyer
To attend and meet Professor Woodward,
Glory of the Otia Merseiana.
Kuno Meyer! Great Professor Woodward!
Bogus Meetings damn, for men of business,
Mister Sampson's Otia Merseiana.
poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
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Narratives
Narratives we tell to show
who we believe we are deceive
the listeners who are forced to go
with that one version they receive,
because we’ve may others we
can tell to different people to
impress them with our pedigree
and perspicacious points of view.
Do we from truth take long excursions
by changing tales about ourselves,
to find as many different versions
as books in volumes on our shelves?
No, there’s some truth in each refrain,
for every life is like a ballad
with different verses that explain
its variations, each as valid
as the next one, contradictions
all harmonized with disappearance
of prejudice about the fictions
that help to give the facts coherence.
Inspired by Benedict Carey, who writes about narratives we tell of our lives (“This Is Your Life (and How You Tell It, ” NYT, May 22,2007) :
For more than a century, researchers have been trying to work out the raw ingredients that account for personality, the sweetness and neuroses that make Anna Anna, the sluggishness and sensitivity that make Andrew Andrew. They have largely ignored the first-person explanation — the life story that people themselves tell about who they are, and why. Stories are stories, after all. The attractive stranger at the airport bar hears one version, the parole officer another, and the P.T.A. board gets something entirely different. Moreover, the tone, the lessons, even the facts in a life story can all shift in the changing light of a person’s mood, its major notes turning minor, its depths appearing shallow. Yet in the past decade or so a handful of psychologists have argued that the quicksilver elements of personal narrative belong in any three-dimensional picture of personality. And a burst of new findings are now helping them make the case. Generous, civic-minded adults from diverse backgrounds tell life stories with very similar and telling features, studies find; so likewise do people who have overcome mental distress through psychotherapy. Every American may be working on a screenplay, but we are also continually updating a treatment of our own life — and the way in which we visualize each scene not only shapes how we think about ourselves, but how we behave, new studies find. By better understanding how life stories are built, this work suggests, people may be able to alter their own narrative, in small ways and perhaps large ones. “When we first started studying life stories, people thought it was just idle curiosity — stories, isn’t that cool? ” said Dan P. McAdams, a professor of psychology at Northwestern and author of the 2006 book, “The Redemptive Self.” “Well, we find that these narratives guide behavior in every moment, and frame not only how we see the past but how we see ourselves in the future.” Researchers have found that the human brain has a natural affinity for narrative construction. People tend to remember facts more accurately if they encounter them in a story rather than in a list, studies find; and they rate legal arguments as more convincing when built into narrative tales rather than on legal precedent.
5/22/07
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Professor Nutbutters House Of Treats
Cmon kiddies gather round. whos your foremost friend in town?
From main to maple the name resounds, professor nutbutter.
Hes the one, the humble one, the barkley county prodigal son.
Here to serve only you, professor nutbutter.
At old nutbutters house of treats from jellied jams to sacks of
Sweets,
Theres creamy and nutatious spreads for all.
Chemist, master of entomology the professor for a modest fee
Will cure what ails you, guaranteed professor nutbutter.
Its alright, dont fear the worm.
Cmon kiddies dont be shy be youthful til the day you die.
The man the myth, the magic of professor nutbutter.
Hes the one the only one the meeklybville prodigal son.
Here to help us with ourselves, professor nutbutter
Its alright to fear the worm.
[its all right to fear the worm. the worm, the worm is our friend.
Um, but not all of the properties of the worm can be, uh, fully,
Fully, well, appreciated by the, uh, the human body itself, but, um
Its, its, its, its ok to, to fear the worm. um, i, myself, have
Had no, uh, problems with the worm but in a certain situation, uh, i
Would feel like, what, what, uh, ramifications, um, could occur? uh,
Theres, theres really no need to, uh, to fear much of anything, you
Know. fear of the, fear of the temptation is a, more, probably, more,
More, appropriate word in this particular scenario. um, the, uh,
Well, it, depends on what you want, I suppose. it really depends on,
On what you want.]
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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11 Weeks
11 weeks of war and 11 weeks of peace,
11 weeks of love and 11 weeks of pain,
11 weeks of sorrow ans 11 weeks of my mind that writes;
But i need hot chili pepper from Chile and,
A rosted turkey from Turkey to rest my mind on your love.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Fairy tale gone wrong?
It began like a fairy tale
A woman and a male
Out of two different cultures
In search for adventures
They truly liked each other
A smile followed another
Where did the fairy tale go wrong
Can you tell me just this one
It has been about six weeks
That I feel misery so strong
that she seems to be gone
that my ship has some leaks
Why did the fairy tale turn false
I know that she truly likes me
The only thought that consoles
but as long as I don’t see
her smiling face again
only pain does remain
Do you remember the old fairy tales
Can you see the story that never fails
To show you that love always wins
Whatever difficulties or hard sins
For us a hard time seems worse enough
Just six weeks do seem much too tough
Where did this fairy tale go bad
Why do the last weeks turn me mad
It’s a story that makes me sad
Only you could make me glad
poem by Michael Saurer
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Y... Magical Moments of Amazing Beauty
Walking on the beach
Children seeking shells
Running around, having fun
Evening sun setting over the land
Shining a wonderful light on the breaking waves
The sky soft and blue
Tattered clouds above the sea
Taking on a breath-taking mixture of colours
Yellow orange in front, purple gray tales
Fluffy here and solid there
Living colours reflected
in the green of the deep sea
Part of me wanted to sing
But my mind ran out of words
Magical moments of amazing beauty
After 5 minutes it was gone
The dark clouds were dark again
The green sea had turned gray
The sky was still soft
I tried to close my eyes,
Focus on the sound of the waves
But the magic of the moment was gone
The colours had vanished
Leaving nothing behind but a memory
Nothing more than a memory
Nothing less than a memory
A memory to cherish
A memory of moments
Magical moments of amazing beauty
When will the next one come?
poem by Aufie Zophy
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Yeah, about sixteen to twenty weeks a year. For example, we can do America in six or seven weeks. You can do Europe in three weeks; England in two weeks. South America you could do in three weeks; Asia you could do in three weeks.
quote by Warren Cuccurullo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Truth, Dream Also.
truely without dreams
how jaded and dry
our lives would be!
a strange relationship,
between truth and dream
surely like the umbilical chord
attached to mother and child.
sometimes, strangely,
dreams and truth,
can be the same
to be in truth
is to be alive
to breathe, and
have clarity of vision.
the fervent desire of
dream is truth.
truth turns its sides,
alone it is restless,
truth cries in pain
and burns till
it proves its mettle.
in the morning
dreams step down,
from the ladder of reverie,
taking a backseat,
confining itself,
often not remembered
in vivid memory,
of the mind.
sometimes,
at the end of dream,
one tries to hold on,
in bits and pieces,
thinking it is true.,
as we catch our breath!
poem by Ritty Patnaik
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2 Weeks
14 Days left
336 hours
Until the end of this chapter
The chapter of hell in my life
2 weeks until I leave
8 hours a day
8 hours of hell in this school
Dealing with ignorance driven by people
Pushing back judgmental walls
After all 8 years in this prison
All I have is 2 weeks,14 days,336 hours left inside this hellhole
Now I can’t figure out what to do
Skip graduation, or stand on the stage and face the music?
That answer has left me then came back
In just 2 week I’ll be gone never to set foot inside again
In just 14 days I’ll leave and never turn back
In just 336 hours, my face will be erased from this place
2 weeks until I graduate from 8th grade
Why now, it must end sooner
In just 2 months I’ll be in high school
2 weeks…
14 days… 336 hours…
The memory of me will be gone
poem by Marcellus Watts
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In the spirit of Rumi - 7
‘My Beloved,
what can I give you of myself,
that I have not given? ’
My Beloved said
‘O my dearest one,
in all places, at all times,
remember Me.’
‘O My Beloved,
how can I not do that? ’
* * *
In tears, I returned to My Beloved
and said
‘O my dearest one,
a week has passed, and the world
pressed hard upon me…
‘The next day, I remembered You
three times each hour;
the second day, I remembered You
but once an hour;
on the third day, I remembered You
in some hours, once; some twice;
some not at all… and so it went…
But O My Beloved,
each morning as I woke
I remembered through my tears
how I had forgotten You…’
My Beloved said
‘In the remembering of the forgetting
there was a feast of sweetest honey for Me,
hiding like a new young bride
laughing with her bridegroom,
laughing with her eyes on Him,
in the silken tent of love.’
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Being appointed Elder Professor meant very much taking over the shop, in that the professor in those days controlled all the moneys.
quote by John Henry Carver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Friend The Professor
Because he was my friend
I will not mention his name
But this brief story lends
So much mystery, just the same.
We all rented that apartment
In separate units of nine-
Near the school where we sent
Our children, to save time.
But life had its testings,
And my friend, the Professor
Found his health had been failing
Soon he needed a doctor.
But the biopsy was grim
Unfortunate and not hopeful,
His chances were quite slim
And the prospects were so awful.
The cancer had advanced-
Surgery was probable,
So he took a last chance
But his end was predictable.
He would walk the early mornings
In our wide tree-lined street
A daily scene repeating
To all the people he that he meets.
He regretted dying early
For his children were still young
He would beg God sincerely
Prayed he'd live more years on.
In three months, he was gone
And we soon missed the sight
Of the Professor's walking, done
In the early morning light.
But soon stories went around
Told by many who had seen
The late 'Professor' was found-
To walk the lane where he had been.
--
Co pyright Cynthia Buhain -Baello
February 17,2010
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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