The Poetry Of A Still Soul
Somewhere in the world today…
The city was crushed, besieged by hatred, fired by the fear of men. Sanity had lost the battle. Prejudice had scored its racial point. Religion had proven once again its own hypocrisy.
One quiet man walked alone amidst the cannoned devastation. Lightly he stepped around the broken bodies lying strewn at the mouths of mortar craters.
He stopped and looked down on a smashed brick: only the day before it had been the scrubbed doorstep of a happy mother. Beyond lay the freshly broken corpse of an old man, his paper-thin parched skin drum-tight on corrugated ribs.
Eyes stared from the smoking debris. Empty eyes, sightless eyes; eyes etched deep with shame; eyes that once had burned bright with national pride now ethnically cleansed of hope.
The quiet man looked and saw humanity choking on the waste of its own confusion; retching hard on the dysfunctional fabric that had been civilisation.
The quiet man’s clothes were the rags of rejection, soaked in the sweat of his tears, ingrained with the blood of a bared soul. Just another dispossessed nobody to the flocking journalists vulturing at the bones of another’s tragedy. A few of these foreign eyes gazing through the windows of new 4X4’s saw him simply as another victim doomed to shortly meet a violent end and some viewed him with a glimmer of pity, but were they to offer aid, they’d soon find themselves mobbed by craving, desperate faces, so chose the easy option, which required them to look the other way. Besides, the damned fool was walking the wrong way! He was heading toward the enemy!
The quiet man paid them no heed and continued to weave onward through a shattered street where only the other day he’d seen children playing and laughing, innocently happy. A faint movement in the civilised ruins caught his eye. He clambered up a tumbled wall of a devastated house and looked into the eyes of a child sat hiding a sad face behind a small clenched fist. The mother’s headless body lay twisted at the child’s feet. A grubby tear rolled down a stained cheek. Already hatred fed his blood; rage raging through every vein.
“I am humbled before your grief,” the quiet man whispered. He reached out a finger and gently caught one tear from the boy’s eye on the tip of his thumb. “It is good your eye can cry. It is through tears a man gains greater insight in his truth. Too many men gaze through an eye set in a head too long dead.” He took the child’s hand in his. “Come. Walk with me.”
Wrapping the child in quiet, he led him toward the noise.
They wove through the rubble: the remains of family homes: the remains of a father’s mortgaged dreams: the remains of a millionaire humbled, now the equal of his labourers poverty. Time carried them through the garrotted city where the wailing mess burned their ears and blasted, mutilated flesh shone crimson before their eyes. No more starvation for those arteries pumping red, branding the soil. No more hope, yet no more hopelessness for the heart that sighed its last wish.
Toward them ran a terrified crowd, running, sprinting away from danger, away from themselves.
He lifted his hand, beckoning them to stop. They stopped and listened.
“Let not fear banish that which we know to be right. Let not fear quench all goodness from a compassionate heart. Let not fear be the last thinking-man’s shame, a last breath to breathe of nature’s fruit. Let love of each other be our inspiration. Let us aspire to our truth; hear your conscience whisper in the breath of your soul. You are your own Christ, your own Mohammad, your own Buddha. Together we are God. As one we will radiate our light.”
They were calmed. With hushed voice they followed him.
One man was alarmed upon realising where they were heading. He forced his way through the throng of people until he walked beside the quiet man and the child.
“Why do you walk towards the enemy?” he asked, surprising himself with the simplicity of the question. “We have no weapons to fight with.”
“To offer them forgiveness.”
“Never!” The man spate the word with the venom of hatred. “I will never forgive them. They have killed and butchered my whole family!”
“We forgive for our own sake. Is it not better to forgive than to have all the goodness in our hearts consumed by hatred? Is it not better to forgive than to have our conscience devoured by guilt, which would leave our soul’s a festering, rotting heap?”
Finally the troubled man muttered, “But they’ll kill you before you have a chance to open your mouth.”
“Then forgive them my death,” the quiet man answered with a smile incongruous with their surroundings.
“You’re mad!”
“Your words are like shapes that have no form, a tangled web of injustice. You regurgitate experience upon layers of misperception. Align your truth with the poetry of a still soul. Madness is merely a perception of the abnormal. Is your perception of normal aligned with your truth? If I am mad then I am complete in my madness, pained with joy, happy in my sadness. Yet I believe in all our sanity, for aren’t even those who deal out death born unto humanity? Were they not once this child? I ask you to aspire. Seed your thoughts in your conscience. It is there you can listen to your truth. We are here; we are now. Our destiny lies naked before us, beckoning us to fertilize the future and begin the conception of a new dawn… I said earlier we forgive for our own sake. That is true, but in so doing, we plant seeds of thought in another’s conscience. Those seeds can root hope in the bedrock of hate and fear, of guilt and shame. They can flower deeper perspective, offer deeper understanding, enlighten with deeper colour. In truth those seeds can shine the light and open blind eyes; eyes blinded on embedded doctrine; eyes blind to their own individual truth. Those seeds are a gift to a brother from our hearts. Of course, as we give freely to others so we give to ourselves. The gift of forgiveness is two sides of the same coin. It is an act of love and love has the power to heal all touched by love.”
The angry man fell back, confused, heavy with laboured thought.
Once they were outside the city the quiet man stopped and directed the child’s gaze towards a bird singing on a nearby bush.
“The song of spring,” he said to the people. “See the beauty even amidst destruction. See the life amongst the death. See how our plight doesn’t change anything of real value.”
A naïve young woman reporter who lacked her colleagues’ apathetic experience ran breathlessly up to him.
“Turn around! It’s the wrong way! What on earth do you think you’re do…” Her voice tailed off as she looked into his eyes.
Stillness. It was as if she was looking into the deep quiet of soundlessness. His eyes were the palest blue and as pure and clear as mountain water, eyes that held the answer to every question she had ever asked…
“Who are you?” Her words danced on a breathless whisper. “What are you?”
He smiled, and the radiance soaked through every sinew of her soul. Suddenly she was aware of the child reaching for her hand and instinctively allowed the small palm to nestle in her own.
The woman couldn’t resist, only respond. Her fingers relaxed their grip on her dictaphone and camera. They fell to the mud and lay trampled by the many feet following as they walked into the sound of violent death.
The child’s grip tightened as the sound of mortar grew thunderously loud and the clatter-clatter of machine-guns erupted around them.
Many fell in the initial burst; some dead, some dying, some injured.
Another burst rang out and he who led was the first to fall, shot twice in the side and chest. The child was shot in the stomach, but made no sound.
The woman screamed loud and long… until she looked into his eyes… Their stillness swept through her, muting the babbling shock on her tongue. Peace settled her thoughts as she laid her head on his bloody chest and kissed his hand.
“What is your name?”
He smiled and said, “My truth is that I am.”
“Please tell me who you are? What you are?” she insisted.
He looked at her deeply. Then said, “My art is fed by the rotting decay of my physical self. An art of stretching, purging, cathartic hunger, ugly in its budding beauty. A life of challenge, riddled, eaten by change, grasping the muddied wheel round. But I tread the mill of empty critics teeth high in the arms of my soul. But I grow from the food of my blood, soured in taste and value. And I root in my artless creative seed, chained to a wasted physical need. And yes, I will flower, safe without this festering heap. Only the simple truth that I am.” His face fanned into a broad smile and he gently stroked back her hair, hooking a tress over her ear so he could more clearly meet her eyes. “We are one in this bright coloured light completing the circle of our truth. The destiny of my truth lies here.”
When the enemy came out of their holes and started to shoot the injured and dying, each victim looked up to his executioner and gave freely their forgiveness. Soon the shot’s became hesitant – the enemy confused. What kind of response was this? What manner of people were they…?
When one gunman came to the quiet man, the woman cradled him tight, covering his body with her own. The gun was aimed and the dying man spoke; free of fear, only full of love.
“Live life with a clear conscience, my brother. You have my absolute forgiveness.”
The child looked up to the executioner and said with a soft, painless voice, “I am humbled before your hatred.”
The man stopped pointing the rifle, dropping it as if it were red-hot to fall with a soggy slap into the mud and ran.
“Embrace the child as your own,” the quiet man said to the woman.
“Please! Don’t leave me!” The woman cried aloud. “The world must hear you! They must see you! They must know you.”
He smiled the gentlest of smiles. “All is coloured by a different light… And the colours change as the sun rises and sets. All is perfect. Shine a light and watch darkness dissolve. Shine your light and your way will be clear.” He cradled the woman’s face in his hands. “We are our own Devil as we are our own God. We are one world, one people.” He brushed his lips against hers. “Your still soul hugs my heart,” he said and smiled and choked on the blood filling his throat, then died.
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Wow! Perhaps the most powerful piece I’ve ever read on Urbis! It seems in some points (though I cant for the life of me remember which) like its either a first or a second draft and could do with a little bit of re-reading and touching up.
I’m slightly confused as to what it’s written about though. The silent man talks and acts as Jesus would. However, you seem to harbor an anti-religious stance in the opening of the piece. In some parts the piece seemed to be meta-fiction; fiction about fiction. It was almost as if this was a metaphore for literature itself in some sections. So, I come away from a powerful piece confused.
Some of the sections of dialogue are worded so amazingly, however there ARE a few that get a little bit cross-eyed. You might want to read this aloud to someone and see what jumps out at you as “just not sounding right” or what jumps out at them as ”...um, huh?”
I’m slightly confused about the “He reached out a finger and gently caught one tear from the boy’s eye on the tip of his thumb.”... I assumed that he was reaching out his finger to catch the tear, then he catches it with his thumb?
I love the imagery of “Wrapping the child in quiet, he led him toward the noise.”
The line “sinew of her soul” doesnt quite sit well with me as sinew conjures too clear an image to be used as a metaphore, I think. Although, this is your piece so it’s definately your choice.
Again, this is one of the most provocative and well-written pieces I’ve read on Urbis. Ever. Not to mention unique. So, it gets an instant favorite and 10/10’s all around! (even with it’s possible need for revision)
- “ethnically cleansed of hope” I don’t understand this expression. How can ethnicity ever refer to a method of cleansing?
- “rage raging through every vein” ? rage raging is not good phrasing in my opinion. Thus far as a read there is some great phrasing that manages to incorporate much meaning with few words, but there are also statements that have writing errors and are worded so that they have only a limited rim of clarity to them.
- ” Wrapping the child in quiet, he led him toward the noise. ” I like this.
- wordy, moral, deep monologue reminds me of older books like Dr. Zhivago, Captains and the Kings, and Crime and punishment. Sometimes they get boring, but are essential to the kind of piece it is.
- “smiled and choked on the blood filling his throat, then died.” kind of a cliche movie ending that for me took some of the impact out with a vision of the conclusion of multiple blockbusters.
- overall this was a powerful piece of writing that really encourages thought and self reflection. It’s good, despite the distraction of missing apostrophes and a few other errors. You strung words together in new combinations made the mind focus and pause to absorb their meaning to the reader, it was really interesting to read. This really makes me think about all the wars today and our own human instincts and attitudes toward those who do us wrong, not only in serious murder and destruction, but even by stealing out coke out of the fridge at the office. Really well done, impressive in insight and skill I thought.
Mika
This is good. It’s insightful, inspiring, and deep as can be. But unfortunately, it frankly isn’t very entertaining. Things like this can be awesome, but you reader may miss the message because they didn’t bother to finish reading.
Now, if you goal isn’t to entertain, then hoorah. Great job. But If it is, I suggest that you just throw a little more something in there. Your writing is fantastic. I didn’t even see any typos, but if anything, you should make it a little mroe graphic. A little violence never hurt anybody (figuratively speaking). That way, they freaks out there would be interested, or those of us with our heads screwed on right would feel the pain of your characters would want to know how this ends and actually feel something when everyone dies.
Great story. Keep it up.
“He looked at her deeply. Then said, “My art is fed by the rotting decay of my physical self. An art of stretching, purging, cathartic hunger, ugly in its budding beauty. A life of challenge, riddled, eaten by change, grasping the muddied wheel round. But I tread the mill of empty critics teeth high in the arms of my soul. But I grow from the food of my blood, soured in taste and value. And I root in my artless creative seed, chained to a wasted physical need. And yes, I will flower, safe without this festering heap. Only the simple truth that I am.” His face fanned into a broad smile and he gently stroked back her hair, hooking a tress over her ear so he could more clearly meet her eyes. “We are one in this bright coloured light completing the circle of our truth. The destiny of my truth lies here.” “
^^ I loved this- fantastic word usage here^ :)
I loved this, especially your use of words for your emotions and feelings. Nothing grammatically jumped out at me, and overally I enjoyed it.
On pages three and seven are the only places that I had some difficulty with the piece. Its just because the dialogue heavy areas seem kind of jumbled with the way you have it laid out. However, everything else about this piece was great. The word choices and voice were clear and concise, conveying your ideas to the reader and setting the emotion and scene quite well. The character development was different, but I ended up warming up to it.
Over all a pretty good piece.
Instead of “fired by fear of men” why not write “razed by fear of men.” The word has the same meaning, is less ambiguous, and is more poetic.
This is semantics, but how would a smashed brick have been a doorstep? Wouldn’t it have been part of a doorstep instead? Also, how did the protagonist know its source? I’m not saying that he didn’t know its source, but that if he does have a reason for thinking that the brick was part of a doorstep that you should explain.
Your description of the old man’s corpse with “corrugated ribs” was excellent.
”...spate the word…” should be “spat the word.”
I would think that a “naive young woman” would be more willing to follow the Quiet Man without question.
Although the artistry of your prose is impressive, I found that the main character’s long-winded speeches were somewhat boring.
This story was highly surreal, and I think intended more as a lesson in “how things could be” rather than how things are.
The angry man, the quiet man, the naive young woman reporter. This lends a parable quality to this tale; it also makes the story impersonal. I can see that this is intentional, but I’m finding it really difficult to connect to a character here. That is, until the last few pages.
When the child speaks as he’s dying, this is excellent. Weird and well written. And in the end elegiac.
Proofreading notes:
brick: only the day (The colon should indicate that what comes after it defines or explains what comes before it. In this case, the semicolon is appropriate.)
In general, you are using the semicolon (and the colon) unconventionally. That’s your call. Strictly, the semicolon should be used only when joining two
independent clauses that are more strongly related than two separate sentences. The only exception to this is larger units within a list containing commas. The colon should be used in place of “because” within thoughts and to introduce lists.
An example: “retching hard . . .” (not a complete independent clause and therefore no need for a semicolon. Also: rage raging . . .) I won’t comment on punctuation further.
4X4’s = 4X4s (not possessive)
spate = spat ??
empty critics teeth = critics’ ??
Your use of language is outstanding (e.g., “his paper-thin parched skin drum-tight on corrugated ribs”)
A few of these foreign eyes gazing through the windows of new 4X4’s saw him simply as another victim doomed to shortly meet a violent end and some viewed him with a glimmer of pity, but were they to offer aid, they’d soon find themselves mobbed by craving, desperate faces, so chose the easy option, which required them to look the other way. – This is a really long, complicated sentence. Maybe you could break it up to make it more easily readable.
rage raging – What do you think about using a different word for one of these?
Wow! The speech the man gave to turn the crowd around was awesome. And then, as I read on, I see that his exhortations become even more powerful. Outstanding!
I am astonished by the quality of your writing, as well as by the message you present. I would say this is the all around highest quality story I have reviewed on Urbis. Congratulations!
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