A Poem - Blame
Hello Wisdom Walkers.
Firstly, why I am using the term “wisdom walkers” to start these notes before each article, or in this case, poem? Seemed better than g’day folks, and points towards a theme of my Substack articles, the belief that each of us has a wisdom within that, given our stillness and attention, can guide us to discover who we really are, and how best to conduct our life. I think we are all on a spiritual path, a journey of inner and outer discovery.
Today just a short note and a poem I wrote recently about blame.
I wrote an article a few days ago about Blame, and whilst contemplating that article this poem arrived. For those of you who are not Australian, I thought it best to give you a short background note. In the poem I refer to a boomerang. These days many people may know of boomerangs as something of a toy, that you throw and it returns to you. The indigenous people of Australia have been called Aboriginals by we Europeans who settled here just over two hundred and thirty-six years ago. The Aboriginals of Australia have been on this land for possibly 60,000 years or more. They created boomerangs. Apart from digging and cutting tools, and as ceremonial artefacts, larger boomerangs were used as hunting weapons. Apparently, as I am certainly not an expert on these things, not all of these boomerangs were designed to return to the thrower, but some did. For the purposes of the poem, imagine one that does.
We often use blame as a weapon. When we cast blame, something returns to ask us, in what way may I have been complicit in that which I am blaming others for? That question urges us to not be too quick to put on the cloak of victimhood.
Thank you everyone.
Blame
I cast out my boomerang of blame
with ferocious accuracy.
I know my target and know its movements.
I aim not just to wound,
but to drop it in its tracks.
My sight is clear,
my throw,
powered by my pain
and the truth of my cause,
will…not…miss.
Flying now with deadly intent.
My prey pauses,
unexpected,
and looks at me.
Look at me.
The weapon,
missing,
turns back to me.
The whistling rhythm of its returning flight,
there is your part in this...
there is your part...
there is your part.
The returning catch.
The unspent blame cuts me.
I bleed.
Poisonous futility drips to the ground.
We bleed.
Thank You
Thank you for reading this. I really look forward to your comments, insights and recommendations. My hope is to build communities of interest around those of you who resonate with these posts.
I also hope we can connect and find ways to act together that serve the world, starting with ourselves, our families and the communities we are part of.
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Thank you for spending time here.
Beautiful Ian