The kind of loser I want to be

In the (mostly) zero sum game of Life, where there are winners, there are bound to be losers. The term 'loser' has such negative connotations that nobody wants to be one. Everyone wants to be at the top, some stoop to win; caring naught for the means.

I dont like the critic whose job is the simplest of all; he creates nothing, owns nothing, loses even less. I dont admire the winner whose face, as Theodore Roosevelt once said, is not marred by dust, sweat, blood. The winner has the joy of winning to comfort him. The person who gives it all, loses and walks away with head held high has my ubridled respect. If he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, knowing that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat. 

He is my hero.

Though I am familiar with the name 'G.K. Chesterton' I never read any of his works so far. Today, I stumbled upon his poem 'The Last Hero'. It made my hair stand on the end. Here it is, with many thanks to www.poemhunter.com.

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The Last Hero

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide,
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride.

The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars,
With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars,
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above,
The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love.

Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,
You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.

The chance of battle changes -- so may all battle be;
I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me.
I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise,
More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes.

She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine;
The sunset never loved me, the wind was never mine.
Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse?
Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress.

O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown,
You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown.

The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day,
They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way,
I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers,
As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers.

How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave,
Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave.
Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie,
When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky.

The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose, --
You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.

Know you what earth shall lose tonight, what rich uncounted loans,
What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones?
My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease,
Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas.

To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given,
The blow that breaks my brow tonight shall break the dome of heaven.
The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see,
Tonight I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me;

One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet's breath:
You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.

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When I lose, this is the kind of loser I will strive to be.

Venus with a difference

Before I started biking, my commute to office took an hour by bus and the route passed through a variety of socio-economic zones. That gave rise to interesting possibilities and even more fascinating co-passengers. They ranged from causal laborers to polished analysts, from homely housewives to slick salesmen and so on.

Few days ago, a girl boarded the bus. Nothing out of ordinary, we have quite a few women on the bus. What set her apart was her exceptional beauty. And she seemed to be aware of, and probably used to, the effect of her presence on surrounding people. She had the magnificence of youth, the one which needs no complexion, contour or cosmetics for support. Nevertheless, all the three she had in plenty. She reminded me of Botticelli’s ‘Nascita de Venere’, except that she emerged out of the dirt road with a lot more garments.

As luck would have it, she occupied the seat right in front of mine. She got out a laptop and started working on some spreadsheet. A beauty with brains, wow! My reverie was broken by a loud song; which I figured out was her mobile ringing. She picked it up with a curt ‘hello’ and did not speak for fifteen seconds. What followed next was a stream of choicest abuses which would make a sailor in gale blush. The words were not your spur-of-the-moment kind; no sir, they were well thought phrases encompassing the other person’s career, parentage and the rest of his life. And her volume was loud enough to attract the attention of those who were not attracted already.

This continued for about five minutes. After that, she hastily shoved her laptop in her bag, stood up and moved towards the exit. I guess the whole bus was thinking the same: Nature, bestowing beauty generously, balanced it in the verbal department. As soon as she got down, she cleared her throat loudly and spat on the road.

That was it. I had a name for her. A name that will dwarf Mr. Boticelli’s prosaic title of his masterpiece but will convey the truth as it is.

Swearing Venus with phlegm.