22 Mar 2019 – This poem was first written on June 6, 2013, revised many times, until the present version in 2019. It is, of course, a “play” on words from “Waiting for Godot,” the imaginative 1953 play by Samuel Beckett, in which two characters – Vladimir and Estragon – wait for Godot. The original play emerged amidst the “beat generation,” in which the absurdities of the time, the sheer contradictions, were captured in ironies, cynicism, despair, and ambivalence.
I felt a need to express my feelings about current times. Finding in them, parallels, the same absurdities, of the past. Does it ever change?
“End your poetry volume on a positive note,” she said!
“Not with regret, doubt, despair!
“This, I was told, by someone in need of love!’
“But cannot love arise from regret, doubt, despair?” I asked.
“Are these not seeds waiting to blossom?
Are these to be ignored,
In favor of romantic pretense?
Are we to turn from grief?
Discard, deny, refute, avoid
Restorative powers of pain, shame, guilt?
“No,” I protested:
“I will end my volume with “GODOT!”
Mirages, designed to placate,
Images, visions, . . . whimsey!
Anthem of an era!
Identity, meaning, purpose!
Conform, submit, obey!
Passivity, obedience, surrender!
Most did not!
I am a child of the Fifties and Sixties . . . Kennedy-Era Kid!
Shattered idealistic hopes!
“Ask not what your country . . .”
“If they knew, there would chaos . . .”
Bullets, lies, white milk!
“Forward: For god, country, flag!”
Whose god, whose country, whose flag?
Schools, media, churches, family:
Wall street drones,
We accepted rewards!
Bowling alleys, drive-ins, slow-dancing,
Amusement parks, chartreuse socks,
Ice cream, donuts, YMCA,
“Hey, what more can you ask for?”
“I honor you, too late.”
“And they all lived in little boxes, . . . “
Suits, ties, tasseled-polished loafers,
Moles, plants, informants awaiting approval!
En loco parentis!
Racism, sexism, ism “isms!”
Hazing, blackballs, student-courts,
Look alike: V-necks, flannel, tan bucks!
Fraternities, sororities, rituals!
Fast foods, milk shakes, fries.
Sex: Yes, No, Maybe, Ok, but . . .
“Will you still love me, tomorrow. . . .”
Indulge! Trust Ike!
Racism, sexism, moralism!
Sunday religions, contradictions, flaws.
Forms, rules, records, surveillance,
Agencies, institutions, parents, priests!
Drunk with control,
Insane with power.
I applaud, too late, voices of counter-cultures!
Choices were clear:
Ozzie & Harriet, Leave It to Beaver, Donna Reed,
White Knight! (Why no Black Knight?)
Linoleum, Formica, plastics, air freshers!
Inhale Camels, Lucky Strike, Micronite filters!
“See the USA, in your . . .”
Suburbs, separation, similarity;
Look alike, be alike, like alike!
Escape from freedom!
Tell me what to do . . .
Black-bearded, rumpled, unkempt!
Shadows, resisting, mocking,
Taunting by presence!
“Beatniks:” Greenwich Village!
Artists protesting times,
In words, poems, drama, paintings, dress, action.
Scornful, daring, provoking,
Rejecting Eisenhower-era comforts,
Seeking more from life . . .
Than transistors . . .
Blacks, women, youth, confused men!
Hungering for more than Betty Crocker,
Insulting symbols, rules, regulations,
Cutting puppet-master strings,
Irreverence in each glance,
Disdain in each step,
Delight in condemnation.
Very presence . . .
Insult to society!
I did not join this protest . . .
This prescient harbinger,
This prophetic, artistic, intuitive impulse,
Rejecting mass control, abuse, habits!
I ignored message . . .
Extremes contain opposites,
Trying . . . Complying!
I did not join them in squalid slums . . .
Walking close to walls,
Panhandling, garbage cans, scavenging!
I failed to carry their message:
“Life is art!
Struggle against uniformity!
“Times are father to child.”
You become what you do!
“Be careful what you ask for . . .
You may get it!”
I did not heed!
Forgive me father, for I have sinned . . .
So have you!
Covenants across wealth, power, position,
Trapping, snaring, seducing,
Apollonian pursuits amidst suffering.
Bugles blowing charge . . . win!
Football fields, baseball diamonds, basketball courts!
Rice fields, paddies, hills, jungles, valleys,
Tunnels, bars, hooches, dope,
Suckee, fuckee . . .
Good morning Vietnammmmmm!
Fight . . . like a man!
“I don’t get no . . .”
“No one gets out of here . . . .”
Relentless human toll:
Government, corporation, nation, media ascendancy:
Bilderburgers, Davos, Illuminati:
Privileged people, families, roles!
Infatuation! Uniforms! Pledges! Hymns!
Amidst white sacred-marble buildings,
Yes Sir! No Sir!
“My arm hurts from . . . .!
We chose seduction:
Materialism, consumerism, celebrities.
“What’s good for General Bullmoose, is good for . . .”
Violence! War! Destruction!
“Don’t cha jest love it!”
Eisenhower’s gnawing guilt:
“We must be alert to a growing Military-Industrial Complex.”
Complex built under his watch,
Funded by his signatures,
Sealing humanity’s fate:
Guns, bombs, tanks, planes,
Empire . . . Sucking life:
Nurtured by greed,
Sustained by fear,
Loyal to smiling faces:
“New Sheriffs in town!”
Wealthy, powerful, positioned, anointed …
Indifferent to suffering.
Too late I celebrate the Dionysian song,
Anthems of generations past.
Well-springs for today.
A toast to “Beatniks,” past and present:
“Where have all the flowers gone . . .”
Rock n Roll!
I sing praises:
Luigi Pirandello, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Jack Kerouac, Samuel Beckett,
Alan Ginsberg, Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre, Eugene Ionesco . . .
Some followed, some understood,
Some seized the moment:
Long hair, color, drugs,
Angela Davis, Martin Luther King, Jr.
Malcolm X, Che Guevara, John Lennon,
James Morrison, James Dean,
Rebels with a cause!
I Close My Volume . . .
Not with illusions of security,
Not with pretenses of love:
I close my volume with a poem to — GODOT.
Harbingers, is part of a volume of collected poems I wrote about my life journey. The closing poem in my volume is entitled: GODOT.
GODOT is not an optimistic, upbeat poem, filled with hopeful visions and positive thoughts. It is a wake-up call, capturing the absurdities of our times, alerting us to creeping controls, domination: ascendance of wealth, power, position. Some rejected the allure, choosing instead to model ridicule.
I wrote Harbingers to remind myself and others, of the 1950s and 1960s, years of our youth, there were people who warned us of the costs of silence and passivity. Sometimes, courage comes late in life. I did not want to waste another chance. We squander time!
Anthony J. Marsella, Ph.D., a member of the TRANSCEND Network for Peace Development Environment, is a past president of Psychologists for Social Responsibility, Emeritus Professor of psychology at the University of Hawaii’s Manoa Campus in Honolulu, Hawaii, and past director of the World Health Organization Psychiatric Research Center in Honolulu. He is known internationally as a pioneer figure in the study of culture and psychopathology who challenged the ethnocentrism and racial biases of many assumptions, theories, and practices in psychology and psychiatry. In more recent years, he has been writing and lecturing on peace and social justice. He has published 21 books and more than 300 articles, tech reports, and popular commentaries. His TMS articles may be accessed HERE and he can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
This article originally appeared on Transcend Media Service (TMS) on 25 Mar 2019.
Anticopyright: Editorials and articles originated on TMS may be freely reprinted, disseminated, translated and used as background material, provided an acknowledgement and link to the source, TMS: Harbingers, is included. Thank you.
This work is licensed under a CC BY-NC 4.0 License.
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