I, Me and Other
Poetry by Gill Schwartz

RAGE SONGS

 

ODE TO RAGE

Flames of rage are my shield,
my defense, my succor.
Rage makes known my wounded cry,
that otherwise would not be heard.
It gives voice to the mute wound inside,
it vents stifled, charged passions.
It shores up crumbling, core-level despondency.
In my starving neediness,
its wall of flame creates
a protecting barricade to surround me,
As my protective boundary,
it's barbs define my limits

Rage serves well to cover-up
fears and self-doubts
I'd rather not know about.
It blocks the pain,
deflects it from tender hurts.
In grief or weakness, rage is my quick fix,
an instant explosion out of a troubled state.
Rage gives me a sense of potency,
power and control,
a passionate rebuttal to hopelessness.
Rage is my safe and sheltering island.
Believing in the guidance of its power,
I stand inspired, self-righteous.

A two-edged gift, though,
rage is also a traitor and enemy.
Rage consumes my soft, subtle feelings,
awareness and capacities in its flames.
It destroys other possibilities that might have satisfied.
Though it wounds all it touches, yet, I love my rage.
My companion.

 

RAGE AS SHAME

The inner side of rage is shame.
And the aftertaste is remorse.
Rage boils out of my impotent grief
with humanity. Watching them debase
every gift and opportunity into
betrayal and dust. As I do,
and pretend my indignant rage
sets me apart, above them.
I rage at betrayal by God
for duping me into this hopeless human form,
by this wretched self whose care I'm in.

In shame, I know that in my self-righteous
lashing outs, I have sacrificed
many precious moments and possibilities.
I feel shame and feel desolate at my giving over
to viscous retribution, to pointless hurt,
instead of to seeking my own real needs, or others'.

Beneath rage is my shame at so little confidence
or self-honoring in dealing with life's challenges.
I am humbled, self-belittled. After my manic emotions
and glands quieten, I disheartedly recognize
that all my torments are just where I left them.

 

RAGE AS GRIEF

Fertile ground for my shame and grief
is not living a soul fulfilling life,
of pretending myself to be the bound,
fear-bound ego-self. Thus enslaving the
genius of my being in torturous futility.

I grieve all that my heart had hoped for
that thus didn't, couldn't possibly attain.
I grieve the endless moments of drowning
in a swirl of past burdens and future terrors.
I grieve how much of my striving soul perishes
in its thorny path to reach to the outer world.

So, for lack of flow and aliveness,
everything stagnates, rots.
My very sense of self putrefies into shame.
And rage, again, becomes my bulwark
against the tide of waiting desolation.

 

 

Copyright Nathaniel Schwartz 2003   www.WisdomVisions.com