Malice Un-forethought, Wizard Award ~ A poem Options

[Guest_Jox_*]

© James Oxenholme, 2005. I, James Oxenholme, do assert my right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of The Copyrights, Designs And Patents Act, 1988. (Laws of Cymru & England, as recognised by international treaties). This work was simultaneously copyrighted in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the United States of America. This work is posted as an unpublished work in order to elicit critical assistance and other helpful comment, only.

Ref: TC 0359 AD (Thanks, Fran, Dani, Nina and Alan )


*Graphic provided by
Celtic Castle Designs

Malice Un-forethought
by TC

Prometheus, a modern man,
forged in heat and fire:
a hundred-thousand volts
powered his electric birth.

I shall call you St. Norme:
You shall have a saintly future;
a normality for all humankind.

Limbs working; voice talking,
he strode across the land.
A man of parts lived in him,
yet he only existed in them.

Yearned to be whole:
as the race from which
he’d been forged.

Though people shun
such different men:
at best to be ignored.

Asylum denied.
Dejected, he turned to his God:
Why have you rejected me?

The good doctor, gone bad,
could only weep:
You are a race apart;
different: a threat.

So St. Norme turned:
he fought against all.
Love, companionship denied:
others’ lives, liberty he took.

From conception, he had
no chance; no future.
He changed his ways, his name
to become what they made him.

Hope begat misery;
desire begat slavery;
destiny begat tyranny.

St. Norme begat the Monster.

(end)

=========================================
TC 0359 AC

Malice Un-forethought
by TC

Prometheus, a modern man
forged in heat and fire:
a hundred-thousand volts
powered his electric birth.

I shall call you St. Norme:
You shall have a saintly future;
a normality for all humankind.

Limbs working; voice talking,
he strode across the land.
A man of parts, lived in him,
yet he only existed in them.

Yearned to be whole;
of the race from
whence he’d been forged.

Though people shun
such different men:
at best to be ignored.

Asylum denied, dejected
he turned, to his God:
Why have you rejected me?

The good doctor, gone bad,
could only weep:
You are a race apart;
different: a threat.

So St. Norme turned:
against all he fought.
Love, companionship denied:
others’ life, liberty he took.

From inception, he had
no chance; no future.
He changed his ways, his name
to become what they made him.

Hope begat misery;
desire begat slavery;
destiny begat tyranny.

St. Norme begat the Monster.

(end)

====================================

NB: "The Modern Prometheus" is the sub-title of the gothic horror novel, "Frankenstein" by Mary Shelley - which bears little relationship in its portrayal of the Monster to most films (save Kenneth Brannagh's).

NB2: the original Prometheus was the chap who stole fire (amongst other things) from the Greek gods and gave it to mankind. They were rather hacked-off by his behaviour.

================================



"|1115568569 -->

[Guest__*]

Dear Jox,

Delighted to provide a crit, of sorts.

First, when I read it I understood not a word of what you are talking about.

Having read the interplay with Fran, I now understand, perhaps, all of it.

So in some senses, this is brilliant, but it needs so many * and notes attached that for me, it quite fails. But this could be me - I deplore "proper" poems so full of classical alliterations that I need a host of ref books to even half-understand, so I simply don't read them !

Therefore in many ways you have written a Keats/Byron/Shelley (ha ! - geddit ? ) poem, totally beyond me. I'm amazed at Fran's perspicacity, she really was close in so many ways, esp Hammer horror.

The main thing wrong with Frankie's monster was it lacked that one dimension which it needed to be human - what they call a soul, but which factually is not "one's soul" but one oneself, the being inhabiting and creating/controlling the bag of meat others recognise one by. The creation was in effect an "animal", and thus differed from the rest of us, it looked sort of like us, but was a creation of the order of a crude-instincts animal (I was going to say dog, but boy ! I remembered your two non-tree users just in time.)

Long live Peter Cushing ....

Love
Alan