Essay from Dr. Jernail S. Anand

Older South Asian man with a purple turban, a white beard and mustache, reading glasses and a purple suit coat.
DEMYSTIFYING THE IDEAS OF GOOD AND EVIL: HUMANIZING PHILOSOPHY

						Dr Jernail S. Anand



Whenever we think of the idea of good and evil, we tend to invite higher forces into play. Good has a vast penumbra, so does Evil and it takes no time that the scenes of heaven and hell start dancing in our imagination. Life is not such a serious matter that every moment we try to jump into the vortex of philosophy, and our forehead remains furrowed with lines of care and anxiety. It is another thing the lovers of mystery want us to remain on tenterhooks, always in the fear of gods, always keeping not only fingers but our minds crossed. In fact, life is not a simple mathematics in which 2 plus 2 becomes 4. Life tends to mystify us, and it is this mystery which fills us with incertitude,  so that there is a lot of suspense which keeps the eyes winkless and minds, restless. 

Loss of Simple Joys

It is not essential every time to turn our eyes up, and feel we are being watched. If we know there is a CCTV camera overseeing us, it makes us cautious, and we tend to lose the naturalness of our actions. This is what corporate systems want to make of us: lose our naturalness, lose our natural joy, they want us to become fear-filled puppets, dancing to the remote dictates of an invisible master sitting far away. It is this simple joy whose loss has cost us dear. We are living under the shadow of two great forces. One is the divine schemata, which has been kind to human beings. And the other is the corporatia, which is essentially unkind and based on human exploitation. Workings of both the systems tend to mystify humanity, and keep them on tenterhooks. We are afraid of gods, and we are afraid of the demi-gods of the earth, displeasing whom can be an instant disaster. 

Giving the go by to Philosophy

I started with the idea that it is possible to lead simple and happy lives without referring to higher philosophy all the time. We can come down to simple equations in order to find out what to do and what not to do. Although it appears our actions are super directed, yet we should not forget that we may not be the directors of our destiny, we are actors. Even if we have been given a written text, yet something has been left to us. It is how well we can perform. Here, it all depends on our powers of delivery. All the men are equal. The only difference is how they deliver. 

It is important to see how an ordinary man acts in his life. He does not bring in Mahabharata or Ramayana, nor does he remember Upanishads. He only remembers simple lines from Baba Farid and Guru Nanak, and performs his daily tasks. At the most he justifies what has been done to him, by the theory of ‘Karma’ without reference to what Lord Krishna said, because it is too much of steam for ordinary intelligence. It may be surprising, but it is a fact that ordinary men are a happier lot, than people like you and me, who are always obsessed with philosophy. We are always scared of the falling skies, while these people know how to survive when skies have fallen.  They have survived through centuries. Philosophy has no other source than the story how these common people have suffered and survived. They not only understand the philosophy of good and evil in their very simple ways, rather they are the fodder of philosophy. There would be no philosophy if the ordinary people cease out of existence. 

Demystifying Human Life 

I am talking of demystifying human life and de-philosophizing human actions. There is one philosopher after millions of men who have really suffered this life. The philosophers are men who are essentially unhappy souls, who fail to find any happiness in the systems which afflict mankind. Happiness, joy, certitude, - all are absent from the combined forces of the philosophizing squad. The thoughts of evil, and lack of joy are permanent guests in the yellow tents. While on the contrary, happiness knows it is the simple hearts of ordinary men where it can have its joyful stint. No philosophy can disturb them when things go wrong. If the wheel of a car is punctured, the most normal act for an ordinary man is to get it mended and move on.  But, it can be a cluttering moment for a philosopher, who would start on a journey into the stars, and try to see, why he had to face such a tragedy. 

Resting Philosophy Under the shade of a Banyan Tree

Let us now leave philosophy to itself. Let it have some rest under the shade of a banyan tree. Let us move into the people who are busy in their workaday life. They leave high philosophy in the temples where they shed a penny or two from their pockets. Now, it is for the gods to keep pondering over their destiny while they are out to script it out in their actions. I would call it the Krishna Squad or the ‘Vasudhaiva Katumbakam’. 

They know life is short, and will not be repeated. So, they think men should do good deeds. An action which gives you happiness, is always good. Sometimes, their goodness is waylaid, and, in that black hour, they are made to turn greedy. Even then, they do not turn the pages of scriptures. They suffer for their follies.  Sometimes they fight also, they are sent to prison, from which, they emerge without learning any lesson. They again indulge in morally unsound practices. This is ordinary humanity. The way it is. They act and suffer and that sets the equations right. And nothing more. They do not bother about happiness. They do not bother about suffering. They have no idea there are angels hovering over them, or devils working inside them. They are just human. Good or Evil. They don’t mind. The education which they got was full of flaws. It talked about honesty, goodness, and happiness. But, the real life made heroes of fraudsters and politicians. They are confused what to accept : the scriptural truths which lie unproved, or the bare facts of life which stand in front of them in brutal truth. 

No Thinkers, Only Actors

Ordinary men are no thinkers like us. They are actually actors. So, it is only in their actions that they have to make or break their destiny. They know what is happiness. And they also know what is good and what is not good. As I have said earlier, happiness has the longest stay in poor quarters. It signifies the fact that it is among the ordinary people that the idea of happiness sustains. It has no interest in philosophers, mystery makers, and even demi-gods who keep pontificating on goodness and happiness ad inifinitum. 

Author:

Dr Jernail Singh Anand, President of the International Academy of Ethics, is author of 161 books in English poetry, fiction, non-fiction, philosophy and spirituality. He was awarded Charter of Morava, the great Award by Serbian Writers Association, Belgrade and his name was engraved on the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. The Academy of Arts and philosophical Sciences of Bari  [Italy] honoured him with the award of an Honourable Academic.  Recently, he was awarded Doctor of Philosophy [Honoris Causa] by the University of Engg and Management, Jaipur. Recently, he organized an International Conference on Contemporary Ethics at Chandigarh. His most phenomenal book is Lustus:The Prince of Darkness [first epic of the Mahkaal Trilogy]. [Email: anandjs55@yahoo.com Mobile: 919876652401[Whatsapp] [ethicsacademy.co.in]

Link Bibliography:
https://atunispoetry.com/2023/12/08/indian-author-dr-jernail-s-anand-honoured-at-the-60th-belgrade-international-meeting-of-writers/







Poetry from Paul Tristram

Gratitudes Three

I am grateful for Petrichor,
Intuition,
and for being born 
the Wrong Shape
to fit into Pigeonholes.



Confrontational Weird

It’s that [Special] moment
when Marina Abramović
stepped towards 
Rhythm O’s participants 
dripping with blood
and tears… and, they
ran away like cowards.
You cannot ‘Buy’… that
… Knowledge, Feeling,
Experience… to look 
the Aggressor/Betrayer 
in the face and see 
No Remorse whatsoever
… is to Understand 
that it is the Weak 
who ‘Attack’ the Strong
not the other way around. 
The ‘Snake’ which hides
in Human Nature… is
kept within the flimsiest 
of Cages, out of eyesight
… those who ‘Lack’
Courage ‘Hate’ The Light. 



Back When I Was A Drunkard

“Who the hell is Belle Elmore?
… you crawled out
from behind the settee 
late last night… around
the guests’ feet… 
over to the coffee table
… spoke her name
into that old Dictaphone 
… then, disappeared
back to whence you came.
Eh, drunk?
of course you were ‘Drunk’
… but, at least you weren’t 
‘Juggling Knives’ again
or ‘Remote Reading’ Diary
Pages of the Ladies present.
We sold a bunch of copies
of your new book…
which, you refused to sign
after the first one… 
upon which you cryptically
scrawled… She’ll simply
end-up ‘Blaming’ Monte Carlo.”



Spent Recharging 

… you don’t need ‘revenge’
but a bigger cup,
for that one overfloweth.
Your dazzling ‘Smile’
has become a weapon
after scaling over adversity
… and your ‘Composure’
a Silent Strength that is Elite.
The Sage nodded respectfully
at your Honesty and Calm
… and claimed, that you were
dressed in Spiritual Armour.
‘Renounce’ and ‘Accept’
… ‘Letting Go’
is always a new Beginning
… take it, and run forward.
Be selective who you listen to
… ‘sticks and stones’
are thrown by small people
trapped in crippling insecurity.
‘Integrity’ is earned slowly…
along a path of… Self Control.



Blemishless

I like the things
which make her ‘Real’,
‘Individual’ and ‘Unique’.
She’s shy,
and a little insecure
about the adolescent 
self-harm scars…
but me,
I could kiss them,
one by one,
until the cows come home.

A stretchmark 
is where you became
a Mother.
And broken heart
after broken heart…
you refused to walk
the weak path of bitterness,
and are strong enough
to still love, and give.
Perfect, to me, 
is not blemishless
and doll-like…
it’s a woman 
full of character,
alive within her own skin.


Bleeds Into Another

At the ‘Knitting-Stage’
… conversation
is littered with
“I was just going to say that”.
Yawning is contagious,
in normal folk, right
… but, when you’re almost
unconsciously racing
each other to start… 
it’s special, you know.
I like the way you ‘Stand’
within yourself
… an entire universe
all by yourself…
except, you’re not
‘All By Yourself’, are you…
I’m tagging along for the ride.


… Almost Spoon-Dippable

You cannot cheat Time
by breaking apart clocks,
revisiting past experiences,
nor by Wishing 
rather than Action.
Complaining, is a snare,
and you’ve got your ankle
and elbow stuck fast.
That’s not Schizophrenia,
exactly,
behind her frowning forehead
… it’s Hurt … 
and I’m proud to stand
watching her bravely
try to bucket it empty.
They’ll Finger-Point
no matter what you do,
the gift this knowledge gives
is Freedom.
Down the road is either
another Mountain or Molehill,
depending upon your Character.
Out of the Crowd,
apart from the Racket and Noise
… is where 
the Imagination riots uncorrupted,
and the Maya Blue Sky
becomes almost Spoon-Dippable.


Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems and short stories published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. His novel Crazy Like Emotion was recently released upon the public by Close To The Bone Publishing.

Poetry from O’roqboyeva O’roloy G’ulomovna

Please, don't cry, Mama

Please, don't cry, don't shed a tear, my dear Mama,
Through thick and thin, you're my guiding star.
When pain consumes me, don't grieve, my anchor,
Let heavens weep, but you, Mama, never.

Don't you worry about worldly strife,
Or whispers of gossiping, meaningless life.
"My only child, alone I strive," please don't say,
Just you, Mama, don't cry, brighten my day.

Feeling the sting of those close, I confess,
Sometimes I grow weary, life seems a mess.
My heart feels crushed, with each painful press,
But please, Mama, don't cry, your tears I suppress.

At times I can't be by your side so near,
Hiding my sorrows, a smile I force, it's clear.
Even a single teardrop, I can't bear,
So please, Mama, don't cry, my love I share.

You're the sun that lights my life's every stage,
My only support, my solace and gauge.
In you, my hope for tomorrow's page,
So please, Mama, don't cry, your love, my cage.


O'roqboyeva O'roloy G'ulomovna was born on September 10, 2005, in the Okoltin district of the Syrdarya region. She is currently a second-year student in the Faculty of Natural Sciences, majoring in Biology, at Guliston State University.  At the same time, she is a young member of the Uzbekistan Liberal Democratic Party (XDP).

O'roloy has pursued knowledge in various fields, including education, personal development, politics, and finance. She is currently mastering English and Turkish.

Poetry from Emeniano Somoza Jr.

Insatiable

How did it come down to this—that I
Question the once bright-faced moon
Now a blackhole lonelily drifting
Through space; ravening for, or
On galaxies and planets arranged
Neatly in the cold lunchbox
Of a prodigious school outcast

Have their icy mother forgotten
To warn them today against sweating
The small stuff; like, if they can't help
But look in the eye of a tormentor
They must speak with the resolve
Of a continent in a deadly headlock
With a flaky tectonic plate



-------

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. considers himself the official spiritual advisor of his roommates, Gordot and Dwight - the first a goldfish, the other a Turkish Van cat. His works have been published in The Poetry Magazine, Moria Poetry Journal, Fogged Clarity, Everyday Poem, Loch Raven Review, The Buddhist Poetry Review, The Philippines Free Press, Troubadour 21, Full of Crow, Indigo Rising, Asia Writes, Triggerfish Critical Review, Troubadors 21, Gloom Cupboard, TAYO, Haggard & Halloo, and elsewhere. His first book, A Fistful of Moonbeams, was published by Kilmog Press in April 2010. His second, Kleenex Theory, published by Createspace-Amazon, came out in 2015. He is busy anthologizing emptiness and boredom at the moment.

Poetry from Santiago Burdon

Fonty The Vegan Vulture


Fonty was a vegan Vulture. 


Other Vultures tried to offer their advice 


Told him they were created as carnivores and eating 

meat 


Is an essential part of their diet.


He stayed true to his commitment to be a vegan


Ate fruit and berries but they never satisfied his appetite 


He began to steal stale bread from pigeons 


Crows kept him away from the cornfields


He was too weak to put up a fight


The Vulture Committee knew he wouldn't last much longer


Sure enough he died from starvation 


The Volt joined together as a Wake and all said a prayer 


Then they quickly ate him.


Judge Santiago Burdon

Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild, Not Real Poetry, Quicksand Highway, Fingers in the Fan, Tequilas Bad Advice, Lords of the Afterglow, Overdose of Destiny, Architect of Havoc.

Poetry from Luis Berriozabal

Into the Valley 

After Gil Vicente 

I go out into the valley,
out into the valley, I go,
where a nightingale 
sings of lost hope.

I go out into the valley,
where bitter lemons grow.
I go out into the valley 
where my rosy cheeks 
have enough of the sun.

There is no fruit for
my labor. There is no love.
I go out into the valley,
out into the valley I go,
as I sing of false hope.

My gentle skin burns.
I’m too pale for the sun.
I go out into the valley
where the nightingale 
sings the saddest of songs.

*

57 Going on 60

I am not
only alive
and in the present,

I am not
in the future 
and the past is gone.
My memory 
is the worst of all.
I might as well be dead.

I have two years left.
I have one toe in the grave.
That is the future.

I may not have two years left.
Who really knows?
The present is fleeting.
The past was a blur.
And I never believed 
in the fountain of youth.

*

Moving Around 

I hide at night
in a home by
a river of
debris and mice.
Of Mice and Men,
I read that book.
I used to love
The Moon is Down.
Moving around 
makes me so tired.

*

Bundle of Dreams 

I was born 
and I will die.

I will die
and I will have dreams.

I will meet
my grandparents 
on the other side.

My hair will
grow long again
and I will be young.

Isn’t it great?
This is one of my dreams.
I have a bundle of them.

*

Words

Words betray me.
I leave them stranded in retaliation.
They get dirty 
with no one to tend to them.
Blank-eyed, they look 
at me with numb attention.
Their false smiles sting.
The words convince me to take them 
back. In a stream
of consciousness the words
start a poem
on the importance of second chances.
More poems come
out wrapped in barbed wire about
America’s wall.
I take a mop to the blood on the page.
I can’t clean it.
The killing has been going on for years.
Our life, our lives
are fed to the black night in the desert.
Off the rails, a
would be leader peddles fear to his lot.
My vote and 
my words are my most useful weapon.
I take a pen.
I write down the story I have to tell.
Nobody can
stop me. I must keep faith in myself.