Finding Fault

A poem by Lorne Laliberte

Foreword:

I carved this poem out in my journal while avoiding my COBOL textbook at college. I was reflecting on how easily we can begin to doubt ourselves when faced with our own fallability. It's easy to ignore our potential for greatness when we concentrate our imagination on our weaknesses and failings. And what on this earth is more terrible than to feel you're losing yourself?

Is a cancer aware of the damage it does?
Is it blind in its cellular orgy to fate?
Dazed, never whole, fast dividing is 
 confusion-multiplying.
Sense of self damaged by selfish desires,
Sickness breeding sickness, feeding sickness,
Mad lust lighting mitochondrial fires?

Is a body so helpless against its own sin?
Is it deaf to the roar of the warnings it makes?
Apprehension, incomprehension, impotence causing
 self-contraception.
Worthiness lost by integrity's lack,
Conscience forgotten 'til moral decay,
What makes a soul fail to keep it intact?

Are a people together excused of their wrongs?
Are we dumb to ourselves in the press of the herd?
Misdirection, protection, acceptance assured with the
 default selection.
United we stand, individuals lost,
Performing our acts of collective unconscience,
We will-lessly follow, regardless the cost.

Afterword:

When I showed this to Michelle she asked me "What does it mean?"

At first I didn't really know what to say. But as I read it over and explained the semantics of the words I'd chosen, I discovered why I wrote this poem, and exactly what it means to me. It sparked a very interesting discussion about life and spirituality and perception of self. My wife's thoughtful and accurate insights continued to amaze me.

It felt good to put this poem up, as it was almost the first poem I'd written in three years. "Almost" because there was a secret project I had been working on for a while: writing two songs for the wedding of my sister Monique to Marc Archambault.

And, there was that really bad poem I wrote in a drunken stupor on an anniversary when the wine went straight to my head. It started with "I have a flat lance, it's not a sword, not a sword..." and was so absolutely pointless it's frightening.

Last modified: November 15, 2003
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