All thought is naught but a footnote to Plato.
quote by George Santiano
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Then?
His chosen comrades thought at school
He must grow a famous man;
He thought the same and lived by rule,
All his twenties crammed with toil;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'
Everything he wrote was read,
After certain years he won
Sufficient money for his need,
Friends that have been friends indeed;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'
All his happier dreams came true –
A small old house, wife, daughter, son,
Grounds where plum and cabbage grew,
Poets and Wits about him drew;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'
'The work is done,' grown old he thought,
'According to my boyish plan;
Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught,
Something to perfection brought;'
But louder sang that ghost, 'What then?'
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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In The Mirror
in the mirror
my past stands before me
caught like a moth around a flame
mesmerised by
who i am
who i was
who i will be
my youthful imperfections clear
my life and loves in every pore
etched
each mark
each change
a chapter
each look and thought
a footnote
a reflection
a reminiscence
a let me be moment
forget about the day to day
and stand
and glory
and be happy
in being
me.
poem by David Keig
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To Molde
Molde, Molde,
True as a song,
Billowy rhythms whose thoughts fill with love me,
Follow thy form in bright colors above me,
Bear thy beauty along.
Naught is so black as thy fjord, when storm-lashes
Sea-salted scourge it and inward it dashes,
Naught is so mild as thy strand, as thine islands,
Ah, as thine islands!
Naught is so strong as thy mountain-linked ring,
Naught is so sweet as thy summer-nights bring.
Molde, Molde,
True as a song,
Murm'ring memories throng.
Molde, Molde,
Flower-o'ergrown,
Houses and gardens where good friends wander!
Hundreds of miles away,-but I'm yonder
'Mid the roses full-blown.
Strong shines the sun on that mountain-rimmed beauty,
Fast is the fight, let each man do his duty.
Friends, who your favor would never begrudge me,
Gently now judge me!-
Only with life ends the fight for the right.
Thought flees to you for a refuge in light.
Molde, Molde,
Flower-o'ergrown,
Childhood's memories' throne.
Oh, may at last
In thine embrace, life's fleeting
Conflict past,
Glad thine evening-glory greeting,
-Where life let thought awaken,-
My thought by death be taken!
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Lads of Highest Nature
Lads of highest nature can evolve one at a time,
Each other they share on their only mightiness.
A single feat has attained a finality in the argument,
As a controversy is obsolete, all, all obsolete.
My tailor is a dress-maker of higher repute than the next one,
A workman is glad, proud and necessary because of his trade.
My money has not arrived from my craft, just as craft,
I do also look at the individual who connects as much as possible.
The money is entrancing and I am enthralled,
Plato has never been so impressed by my imagination-
It carried me through the generations and my old age.
The old poem has written itself, and I am again in love with my word.
Plato and Aristotle are blinking and I am in the way of their thoughts.
Practical thinking is the most careful over the poem, of thought.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Transcending Platonic Platitudes
Coxcomb, charlatan and bore,
Plato paved immoral ways for Byron. He
transcended platitudes that bore,
transforming them with his immortal irony.
Inspired by Byron’s lines in Don Juan, CXVI, cited by Roger Scruton in Sexual Desire: A Phiosophic Investigation, p.237:
Oh, Plato! Plato! You have paved the way,
With your confounded fantasies, to more
Immoral conduct by the fancied way
Your system feigns o’er the controlless core
Of human hearts, than all the long array
Of poets and romancers: –– You’re a bore,
A charlatan, a coxcomb –– and have been,
At best, no better than a go-between.
8/29/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Nothing
Pain
All consuming
Like a fire
I can't breathe
There's nothing left
What have you done?
My hands are shaking
I can't sit still
My mind is racing
My heart is breaking
Strangled gasps
Heart races
It's all a blur
Where am I?
What happened?
Who are you?
You stole my breath
My mind
My heart
My body
Are you a thief?
Are you a liar?
Who is it that can do something so small,
Yet so large
That I have nothing left
Only pain
Only rage
Only hurt
Only tears
Only blood
Only fears
Only death
Have you stolen everything?
Or is my life still left?
I hear naught
I see naught
I feel naught
I smell naught
I taste naught
Am I nothing?
Are you nothing?
There's nothing left
I sense nothing
I know nothing
This must mean I am nothing
It must mean you are nothing
Am I nobody?
Like a myth
Like a legend
Like a story
Does this make everything I've said
And done
And felt
Unreal
Like a dream
Or a story
Or a thought
So it never happened?
You didn't make me love you?
You didn't hurt me?
You didn't make me cry?
Make me bleed?
Make me suffer?
You didn't leave me there
On the street
On a sidewalk
So I could bleed out?
You didn't hold a knife?
You didn't violate me?
You didn't kill me?
You didn't walk away?
You didn't lie?
I didn't exist meaning
You didn't exist so
You must not have
Meaning
I am not dead because
I just never existed
And you are not alive
Because you never existed
We are just nothing
poem by Gwenevere Cornwell
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A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.
quote by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Platonic Love
do not mistake
the kind of
love that
plato offers
during
his times
you say
platonic
one that
is pure
and free
from lust
one
that merely
gazes
at the other
without
hormonal
considerations
nothing
chemical
but pure
feelings
of being
intimate
and
sweet
i hear
it once
that plato
also loves
boys
and he
must
have called
it
platonic
baloney
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dreams
There is naught in the pathless reach
Of the pale, blue sky above,
There is naught that the stars tell, each to each,
As over the heavens they rove;
That I have not felt, or have not seen
Clad in dull earth or fancy's sheen.
There is naught, in the still, mauve twilight
When the dreams come flitting by,
From lands afar of eternal night,
Or lands of the sunswept sky,
For countless spirits within me dwell
With heaven's efflugence or dark hell.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else can be only a footnote.
quote by Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ever-beguiling Smile
The ever-beguiling smile,
Shall luminesce all the while-
Ever radiant, powerful beyond measure,
Mine to purvey and treasure!
Many have been entranced by such,
Know do I at least this much-
Our's is made better for its radiance
Naught exists as measure to its brilliance!
My world, brightened by mere thought
Of all to us this has brought!
Alas, as if the Heavens smile through thee
Its quantum, naught is there, to me!
Angels nary could provide more for pause
Than what your smile, in me, does cause!
Maurice Harris,22 February 2009
poem by Maurice Harris
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I learned later, just as a footnote, that the World Assembly of Youth was a CIA front.
quote by Stephen Lewis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In this world of change naught which comes stays and naught which goes is lost.
quote by Madame Swetchine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Apparently, I Expected Too Much Of You (A Bittersweet Eulogy For Justice)
I was told many times: 'it will be alright, you will find relief'-
Yet, none who uttered these sentiments are here, to witness my grief!
They may have said: 'just focus on what remains behind.'-
Though none still, are here, so that I may cause remind,
That there is naught left, in the wake of this horrid disaster-
Only I must regain glory lost, both here and everafter!
I have kept the thought of 3 memories, most prescient, alive;
It shall be to this very end that I endeavor, to strive.
I am steadfast in my determination, of mind and soul:
One day, I shall want for naught again, all that they stole;
I am of the righteous, so God Himself, sides with me-
Never has it not been a matter of same-truth resides with me!
I apologize profusely; apparently, I expected too much of you-
It is obvious to me now-I should have never put my trust in you!
poem by Maurice Harris
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I Thought I Never Would Forget
I went back in time today a box I thought
I'd thrown away
Had fallen off the basement shelf,
I tripped and almost hurt myself
Scattered there across the floor
A New Year's Eve hat from '94
Ticket stubs to Billy Joel and pictures
From the Sugar Bowl
Some of these souvenirs I remember
Mostly I don't
It's funny how time reduces a keepsake
To a footnote
The wheres and the whens that meant
So much then
Have gracefully moved along
My memory had mercy on me
And let me go on
Considering everything you meant I thought
I never would forget
Here's us dancing on your birthday
July 29th or 28th
The song was "Always and Forever,"
I'm not sure but I remember
That's the night we first made love
The passion captured both of us
It held us, then it set us free,
This is all that's left of you and me
A cardboard treasure chest with a diary
Of two lovers
Now it's a dusty old box no different
From the others
The wheres and the whens that meant
So much then
Have gracefully moved along
My memory had mercy on me
And let me go on
Considering everything you meant I thought
I never would forget
My memory had mercy on me
And let me go on
Considering everything you meant I thought
I never would forget
song performed by by Phil Vassar
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our tradition of political thought had its definite beginning in the teachings of Plato and Aristotle. I believe it came to a no less definite end in the theories of Karl Marx.
quote by Hannah Arendt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ballade Of The Breakfast Table
When the Festal Board, as the papers say,
Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat,
At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeuner,
(As a bard tri-lingual I'm rather neat)
At breakfast, then, if I may repeat,
This is what gets me into a huff,
This is a query I cannot beat:
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
I've broken my fast with the grave and gay,
With hoi polloi and with the elite;
I've been all over the U. S. A.
From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney Street.
But aye when I sit in the morning seat
Comes to my notice the self-same bluff,
Plenty of food, but in this they cheat:
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
Take it at breakfast, only to-day:
This was the layout, fresh and sweet:
Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay; [Footnote: And about as edible.]
Cereal-one of the brands[Footnote: To advertisers: This space for sale.]
of wheat;
Soft-boiled eggs (we've cut out the meat) :
Coffee (a claro-manila-buff) :
Napery, china, and glasses complete-
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
L'ENVOI
Autocratesses, forgive my heat,
But isn't it time to change that stuff?
Small is the benison I entreat-
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale's song in the grove.
quote by James Beattie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Meeting
MY Damon was the first to wake
The gentle flame that cannot die;
My Damon is the last to take
The faithful bosom's softest sigh:
The life between is nothing worth,
O cast it from thy thought away!
Think of the day that gave it birth,
And this its sweet returning day.
Buried be all that has been done,
Or say that naught is done amiss;
For who the dangerous path can shun
In such bewildering world as this?
But love can every fault forgive,
Or with a tender look reprove;
And now let naught in memory live
But that we meet, and that we love.
poem by George Crabbe
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