Words are metaphor sound containers wanting to be opened, interviewed and heard. I have never met a word that didn’t want to be heard. Even hard to believe-in words want to be pronounced. Like Holocaust. Like Rape. Like Shame.
Imagine not being able to announce these words as travesties and creations of heartless men. What if there was no way to shout No, never again?
Voice gives words a power that they would never have if they were only read.
Yesterday I interviewed the word “Love” Today I will interview the word “Hate”.
Poetman: You seem to be everywhere at all times, where do you get the energy?
Hate: I have a secret fuel source. A vitamin if you will, that gives me all the energy I need. The source is inexhaustible. So I am confident that I will never die.
Poetman: Never die? Wow. “Hate” you seem so confident of that, how can you be so sure?
Hate: As long as there are strangers, I live. As long as there is fear, I live. As long as there is difference, I live. I am an I. I have a self. I am contrast. I am the antidote to fear.
Poetman: What’s in the sound container of the word hate?
Hate: That’s an interesting question. You see the word hate first starts as a deeply internalized reaction to an emotion that threatens the core of a person’s sense of self, or to the way that self wants to belong to someone or to something.
Hate starts as silence; the need for a strictly enforced silence. This silence is usually enforced by an outsider of the self, a family member or a community trying to maintain certain standards. As soon as you learn to “never talk to strangers” or include an appreciation for strangeness or difference; a family or community becomes locked by a stricture of its own conformity.
Poetman: “Hate” tell us more.
Hate: Remember earlier when I said that I have a secret fuel source, an inexhaustible fuel source?
Poetman: Yes I do, I have been meaning to ask you about that.
Hate: As long as there is a fear that love is finite, that it has limits, there are those who will endeavor to protect it as a resource. When love is threatened, hate lives. And then what was a silent festering protective impulse begins to gather to itself some sympathetic and loud friends. I am speaking of course of “Rage” and “Anger”.
In the sound container of the word hate is a cacophony of anguished voices crying “I am me. I belong. You can’t take love from me and if you try, I will kill you.”
So you see Poetman, I am guaranteed a long, long life.
Poetman: Yes, I guess I do…