How's your conscience?

In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself

The buzzard never says it is to blame.
The panther wouldn't know shat scruples mean.
When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.
If snakes had hands, they'd claim their hands were clean.

A jackal doesn't understand remorse.
Lions and lice don't waver in their course.
Why should they, when they know they're right?

Though hearts of killer whales may weight a ton,
in every other way they're light.

On this third planet of the sun
among the signs of bestiality
a clear conscience is Number One.

People who have been reading this month's poems will recognize the style by now -- Wislawa Szymborska.

Today's newspaper tells me this is the 15th anniversary of the Columbine shootings and also the anniversary of the Virginia Tech shooting. It says that every day 35 people in the U.S. are killed with guns. How many killers actually are capable of remorse? How do people acquire consciences? Is there a point in early childhood when a conscience can either be nourished or killed? I believe the answer to the last question is yes. How? That's a question I can't answer which needs thought and research.

Another "Lot's Wife"

Wislawa Szymborska's is the longest of these poems. I like it best but I'm an avid Szymborska fan, the turns of her mind always fascinate me.

They say I looked back out of curiosity,
But I could have had other reasons.
I looked back mourning my silver bowl.
Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.
So I wouldn't have to keep staring at the righteous nape
of my husband Lot's neck.
From the sudden conviction that if I dropped dead
he wouldn't so much as hesitate.
From the disobedience of the meek.
Checking for pursuers.
Struck by the silence, hoping God had changed his mind.
Our two daughters were already vanishing over the hilltop.
I felt age within me. Distance.
The futility of wandering. Torpor.
I looked back not knowing where to set my foot.
Serpents appeared on my path,
spiders, field mice, baby vultures.
They were neither good nor evil now -- every living thing
was simply creeping or hopping along in the mass panic.
I looked back in desolation.
In shame because we had stolen away.
Wanting to cry out, to go home.
Or only when a sudden gust of wind
unbound my hair and lifted up my robe.
It seemed to me that they were watching from the walls of Sodom
and bursting into thunderous laughter again and again.
I looked back in anger.
To savor their terrible fate.
I looked back for all the reasons given above.
I looked back involuntarily.
It was only a rock that turned underfoot, growling at me.