I'd encourage anyone who is an atheist and reads this blog to enter Bill Knott's $1000 Atheist Poetry contest. Info below.
PLEASE CONSIDER SUBMITTING POEMS TO THIS BLOGANTHOL:
http://atheistpoetryblog.blogspot.com//
Cash prize: one thousand dollars will be awarded for the best new anti-religious poem
submitted/accepted/posted on this blog in the year 2012.
(No entry fee, judging will end December 1st.)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
I'm an atheist and I read this blog. I'm so lonely, and the universe is so big. Help me.
ReplyDeleteSub some poems that Bill Knott will like and win big!!!!!!!
ReplyDeleteAre we allowed to jump up and down shouting THERE IS A GOD! if we win the (much needed) cash? Only kidding. Fundamentalist atheist here...
ReplyDeleteHere's my poem:
Empty Nest Syndrome
When I left the garden I was tired
-- not ashamed. It was bracing!
I hid my nakedness, yes,
But so would any fool facing
The blunt winds of that bare plain.
Between kissing and bitching
About how He was treating us,
The serpent had promised me others.
Said I didn’t know what I was missing.
We didn’t realise He was listening.
Adam and I watched our brood
Grow ancient and intertwined.
Getting desperate, we searched
The lands we’d discovered once
Eden’s walls were left behind.
Fall from grace? Arse. He couldn't cope
With our having outside interests.
I had my doubts about that snake:
Impossible to trust him after all the fuss
-- The absurd notion of lost innocence.
The oily prick hadn’t lied though:
They came down from the trees,
Despite His imperious graffiti
Smeared on all the trunks, and
The human race was up and running.
Apes straightened slowly, see.
The world would have sung itself.
He just happened to clear his throat
As the curtain rose: obviously
The Old Goat spent all Sunday tagging.
Apples worked against Him:
I gave one to Newton, and I planted
Several varieties for Mr Darwin.
Yes, God cast us from the garden:
Told us to forge a multitude He couldn't
...and has been harping on about it ever since.
Age and loneliness will ruin the best of us.
Oh how He must have hung on
To the fading notes of the final coda,
Waiting for His Other, far into the silence.
With His ribs still aching from the effort
Of trying not to crack the anger
With a giggle, as He sent us away.
I think of this when I tell my son he
“Can’t treat this place like a hotel.”