Tag: fear

“An Ode To Intellectual Honesty” (A Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

NZ (among other nations) has an affliction much worse than The Black Plague.

It is a persistent ‘built in’ shyness.

A built in reclusiveness that is robust to attack.

As a ‘liker of ideas’ this my friends and enemies – this is no good.

I want to be able to share ideas freely.

Here in NZ everyone is too afraid of sharing intellectual ideas.

And if they do it is often corrupted by cultish like political tribalism.

This is why I saw a ‘open night poetry’ advertisement that had a warning:

(& to summarise it via paraphrase)

“We want it to be safe so no ‘hate speech’ is allowed”.

This is what I am talking about.

Even poetry – which is supposed to be the (last) bastion of any and everyone’s ‘Truth’ –

Is now casually conscripted into quasi-national-socialist-literary-Brownshirt-ism.

People who haven’t seen either a mirror or their own shadow do condemn so drop-hat-ingly.

I see it as a total fear of having your mind changed by someone different and original.

And until NZ allows its artists and writers to ‘do art’ and ‘write words’,

We will continue to wallow in backward socio-cultural-mediocrity-land,

Where you dare not question the censorship laced tired dull unoriginal tribal company line.

One day people will wake up to all this.

My optimistic guess is sometime in the year 3036.

Where it will be safe to go to an open poetry night,

And share your mind freely with a wild array of formerly unacceptable conjectures,

And neither be applauded roundly or chastised drably.

You will simply be listened to and then a fantastic member of the audience,

Will be interested to purely and intellectually talk of their ideas and yours over a giant pint.

Of course this still sporadically happens even now,

But only as rarely as a inordinately cheap classic at the second hand bookstore is found.

But we controversial conjectorial thinker types cannot be beaten easily.

Like the virus that survived the traumatic trip to outer space under on a phillips-head screw,

We will too will survive to cough out (spontaneous emit) our acerbic & strangely colored lines.

(Much to their chagrin).

This was my ode to that priceless currently invisible concept: ‘intellectual honesty’.

“She, The Red Shed, & Me” (Spoken Word/A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I had been ignoring things.

As my non-fitted sheet was falling off the bed far too easily,

& as it had been doing so for six months –

It was time to go to the Red Shed to get a ‘fitted sheet’.

But I was hungry , so I stopped to get a pie & a coffee for lunch first.

Outside the shop a beautiful young-ish woman walked by.

Of course I noticed her.

Fifteen years ago, I would have been actively plotting to meet her perhaps.

When I was younger, slimmer & could still be temporarily confused for a ‘success’.

On dating matters I was more courageous back then –

I had the raw instinct that hormones allow, & smartphones hadn’t had enough time-on-earth to ruin yet.

Now I’m a jaded 47-year-old, although I probably hide it well –

Due to physical work, having all my hair, & not being too fat or wrinkly.

But like all those who have been around the block – I am of course battle-scarred.

So she flittered past & I finished my pie & coffee.

I went to the Red Shed for a fitted sheet.

I’m looking through the packs, deciding on what pattern looks ok.

Then, there she is – the beautiful pie & coffee girl, doing the same thing as me.

I say ‘girl’ because I’d say she’s under thirty-two.

It was then a few emotions took over.

I felt scared.

Like I had to run away.

It was then I realised,

Just how much a big deal even the thought of dating is,

Let alone a relationship,

For a battle-scarred 47-year-old.

With those pangs of emotions hitting hard, I realised acutely & viscerally,

I was still nursing very old wounds from more than a decade ago.

I snatched the fitted sheet pack & disappeared off.

As I was walking to the checkout, I thought:

This is a very sad state of affairs –

I hadn’t until then realised quite how twice shy I really was.

Sometimes reality hits you square right between in the eyes,

And tells you your exact emotional status on the spot.

As I walked to my car, I felt partly ashamed, somewhat enlightened, and tinged with anger.

For I knew that to contibue to indulge those emotions would not bode well for my future heart.

For surely there must be some nasty ephemeral force that wants many of us to stay lonely for life.

It wants us to hunker down in fear & embrace it as a prime motivator, & worship as a guru.

It wants us to fall in love with it in true Stockholm Syndrome fashion.

At least I’ve been around the block enough to know that giving in to such evil is a waste.

Intellectually I know that – don’t we all?

I wonder if I’ll run into that beautiful woman again?

After all – I did forget to buy a pillow….

Perhaps she did too?

Oh there’s one thing I forgot to say.

Between high tailing it away from the fitted sheet rack to the cash register,

I looked at some bogan black jeans on a rack – for nowadays they are not just for bogans.

She walked past & we made eye contact.

I played it cool, & that prior emotion at the fitted sheet rack had dissipated nicely.

And now that I have long left the store & sit here writing in my messy studio,

I am thinking this:

Will I have the balls to say hello If I see her again?

Or will I succumb to being like all the others –

Like every jaded long term single forty plus-er? –

And so say not a peep & desperately avoid eye contact?

That is to allow myself to be typically Mid-Mid-21 Century Socially & Romantically Risk Adverse?

I’d like to think I can next time show some testicular fortitude at the, shall we say red shed pillow aisle.

One thing I do know is this: It can feel nice but It’s never wise to follow the crowd.

Fifteen years ago, I would have felt more confidant this situation.

But then again – I was also a total fool fifteen years ago.

This dear audience, was my ode to being single at 40 plus.

And so, of it all – I dare not talk of solutions.

I’m mostly just happy to just know what’s going on –

For I didn’t have a clue back then, fifteen years ago, when I was thirty-two.

As a battle hardened (or perhaps battle defeated) youngish-old-coot,

I know that to be true.

I guess I better go back to the Red Shed to buy that pillow I forgot about.

After all, I’ll need it anyway.

“Am I weak for not helping her?” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

I was on a one week break in Dunedin New Zealand.

But it could have been any city anywhere –

For at base a city, is a city, is a city – is it not?

the only difference is by degree.

I was sitting like a lonely writer at a table,

One of ten in the outside area of a quasi-dive bar.

With Beer in hand.

There were 7 empty tables & me –

But I stopped worrying about being alone decades prior.

I like my own company & my thoughts.

My thoughts rarely attack me other than to say –

“Why are you being so lazy”.

I can live with that ok.

A homeless young woman came up to me.

She was of course dishevelled,

Beaten down,

But I could see the beautiful young woman,

That lay hidden beneath the outer skin of deep misfortune,

Waiting to be rediscovered, unearthed, returned.

”Do you have any weed” she says.

”No sorry I don’t smoke weed” I say matter if factly.

”Do you have any other drugs”

”No I don’t sorry”.

Later on I realised that was a technically a lie –

I was Drinking one of the worst drugs known to man.

She leaves crosses the road to the convenience store across the road.

I think to myself –

”I should buy her some healthy food” –

But I don’t get up from my beer seat.

That thought felt like it didn’t have enough weight.

If I was truly decent,

wouldn’t I have jumped up quickly & bought her a pie?

I guess this is how she & people like her remain invisible.

We see these human beings as ‘theoretical things’ instead as someone to help.

I think how terrible it is that people exist in this hopeless state.

We help stray cats & dogs with glee, but stray people make us recoil like a coward.

Part of us fears being attacked or dragged down with them.

So mostly we don’t help them.

And the councils & politicians hate them.

For when the city has an event,

Cities bulldoze away their shanties & mattresses & meagre belongings,

For fear of being embarrassed by out-of-town spenders.

They become like a forgotten species of human being.

We let them die off.

If in the moment when we ignore them, –

Instead we felt their pain as if it were ours,

We’d help them.

For we’d see them as real human beings.

I am mostly a selfish coward like everyone else –

For I only help those that are only perhaps 1/3rd way down in the hole.

I am ashamed of my weakness –

I too often help others only if is comfortable.

I hope one day courage will find me more.

I can’t help but keep thinking of that young woman.

what will happen to her?

Tonight?

Tomorrow?

Next month?

A year?

in 5 years?

Ten years?

I think somehow we more fortunate will pay for our “comfortable cowardice”.

Are we scared if we help, we will become like them?

I think deep down – this is true.

And tomorrow we will scroll down upon that which is unreal.

And then give asshole celebrities our hard earnt cash by the Billions.

As if all the homeless destitute & downtrodden have totaly disappeared.

Oh lordy lordy – why are we so weak?

Why am I so weak?

Help her.

For she is still there when I close my eyes.

They all are.

The first step is to admit we aren’t doing sh*t to help.

Yet those ghosts could be any one of us –

Just like the last “Great Depression”.

Well, I guess it’s been a while.