Bruce Taub's poem for our June 22, 2022 meeting

This was our prompt:

From Stazja McFayden's  
Poets for Human Rights e-Newsletter 2022-5:

The Greeks were considerate in naming the different kinds of love – eros (romantic passionate love), philia (deep friendship), erotoropia (playful love), storge (unconditional, familial love), philautia (compassionate self-love), pragma (committed, companionate love), agape (empathetic, universal love), xenia (guest-friendship, hospitality).

The idea was to choose one of these forms of love as theme for a poem.

Bruce chose philautia, compassionate self love.

Self Love

When I love myself

I am small and thoughtful

And don’t use much space

Or oxygen.

I am a man who listens well

When I love myself

And then am critical of my narcissism,

My need for attention and affirmation,

The immense amount of work it takes

Just to keep this tall, fumbling man with bad manners

And nose hairs

Alive and safe.

 

The impact of truths exposed

Will not always be pleasant or good.

When appraising one’s self-criticality honestly -

Confronting one’s truest truths

Is not always pretty -

All of which makes self-love a challenge

But commends the faint object of the man’s affections

To high self-regard for his accurate self-appraisal

And self-critical honesty, which can also be love.

Bruce Taub and Pearl in Glover, June 2022

You can read more of his poems on his blogspot:  https://brucertaub.com.    

At last: a poem from Steve Cahill!

 

The Killing Floor                              

Steve Cahill

I remember the soft velvet darkness

of night and the first colored cusp of dawn

the rocking rhythm of the loaded truck

and the sounds of the animals inside.

 

I remember the cattle pens and chutes

narrowing down and forcing them to go

into the slaughterhouse in single file

to the waiting men on the killing floor.

 

I remember the man with the hammer

and how he delivered that stunning blow

with the cows bleeding out while still alive

and eviscerated before they died.

 

I remember seeing their liquid eyes

watching the hooks and pulleys winch them up

while they are being flayed and dismembered

by men wearing bloody aprons and boots.

 

I remember their knives, so sharp and fast

like flashing lights along the moving line

where hundreds of cows were killed every day

packaged up as fodder for the masses.

 

I remember political functions

campaign banquets and rich donor dinners

serving tenderloin with lofty language

new promises for last election’s lies.

 

 We’re at the portal of the abattoir

—which is another name for slaughterhouse—

looking at the labyrinth of pens and chutes

—hoping it’s the way to democracy—

 

            but it’s still the same old abattoir door

            opening back onto the killing floor. 

                                                                Steve Cahill