Cogito cogito ergo cogito sum
quote by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unmethodical discourse at a café table
By the flickering candlelight
of the long evenings,
inimical to study so they said
they played this game
to while away the time
between learning and authority
in that Jesuit college
in the early 1600s:
blindfolded or simply shut-eye and don’t cheat
you turn the pages of the Latin dictionary at random
and stick a pin, in turn, upon a random word;
the first to make a sentence
in the fewest rounds, the fewest words, wins
a prize of choice..
we do not know the prize
(among those severe, repressed, ambitious
boys, perhaps it’s just as well…)
or what the others drew;
but this we know: that night
René pricked a first word – ‘sum’ – ah! -
promising! a verb was useful, in this game—
the second round… he pricked on ‘ergo’…
that swift mind already playing the tables
of his agile mind…
the air was tense; they’d remember
this night, this flickering light,
forever in their future lives…
a hush (how boys fight to win
more fiercely than Christ’s soldiers,
whom they would become…)
‘Cogito’! A shout of triumph
from our René – and the rest
is history – alas..
It’s said the Devil enters in
at the third stroke; and so it was:
in three words, a lifetime’s career
as the greatest of divines
in an age of awe for the divine
were lost to mere – philosophy…
the age of Clairvaux, Cluny, Chartres
for all too brief a moment,
saw the vision of a glorious revival; but...
triumphantly, our René shouts
‘Á moi, c’est la conquéte! Le jeu d’esprit á moi! ’
(impeccable Racinian hexameter, naturellement..) –
alas for human vanity! The gods were whispering
‘Sum, ergo cogito! ’ in his spiritual ear – but no –
his chose mankind’s so vain conceit
and launched a thousand thousand
café tables on the pavement; seated there
in black, with scarf and beret, sunglasses,
in a cloud of choking gitane and gauloise smoke,
centuries of self-satisfied philosophes,
believing 'cogito, ergo sum': that they are their thought; born
as true Frenchmen, to be world thinkers, Rodin-like; and
that because they think, they are… somebody…
oh René, what a fall was there...
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Who Am I?
Rene Descartes popularized
The phrase: Cogito ergo sum-
I think therefore I am. How wise!
If I’m thinking, then it’s presumed
That I exist because of “I”
The one doing the thinking.
On this point we see eye to eye;
Even so, it begs questioning
Beyond my very existence;
That is, the question: who am I?
A query asked with persistence.
What does “buried beneath” imply?
Does it mean “core sense” of myself
Or an illusion of one’s self?
poem by Albert Ahearn
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As the ego cogito, subjectivity is the consciousness that represents something, relates this representation back to itself, and so gathers with itself.
quote by Martin Heidegger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Monster of Mr Cogito
1
Lucky Saint George
from his knight's saddle
could exactly evaluate
the strength and movements of the dragon
the first principle of strategy
is to assess the enemy accurately
Mr Cogito
is in a worse position
he sits in the low
saddle of a valley
covered with thick fog
through fog it is impossible to perceive
fiery eyes
greedy claws
jaws
through fog
one sees only
the shimmering of nothingness
the monster of Mr Cogito
has no measurements
it is difficult to describe
escapes definition
it is like an immense depression
spread out over the country
it can't be pierced
with a pen
with an argument
or spear
were it not for its suffocating weight
and the death it sends down
one would think
it is the hallucination
of a sick imagination
but it exists
for certain it exists
like carbon monoxide it fills
houses temples markets
poisons wells
destroys the structures of the mind
covers bread with mould
the proof of the existence of the monster
is its victims
it is not direct proof
but sufficient
2
reasonable people say
we can live together
with the monster
we only have to avoid
sudden movements
sudden speech
if there is a threat assume
the form of a rock or a leaf
listen to wise Nature
recommending mimicry
that we breathe shallowly
pretend we aren't there
Mr Cogito however
does not want a life of make-believe
he would like to fight
with the monster
on firm ground
so he walks out at dawn
into a sleepy suburb
carefully equipped
with a long sharp object
he calls to the monster
on the empty streets
he offends the monster
provokes the monster
like a bold skirmisher
of an army that doesn't exist
he calls -
come out contemptible coward
through the fog
one sees only
the huge snout of nothingness
Mr Cogito wants to enter
the uneven battle
it ought to happen
possibly soon
before there is
a fall from inertia
an ordinary death without glory
suffocation from formlessness
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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For Atheists on Christmas Day
It is my goal to find every spiritual experience I can,
So I became curious about what an atheist church might be like.
I sought out a place where I could go
To test myself, and question whether or not anything holistic
Could exist, challenging all my metaphysical quandaries
To find if I could, for that moment, believe in no deity—
Whether or not I actually do is irrelevant to understanding—
Or anything supernatural.
When I found that temple of doubt,
I realized what they were talking about,
Or at least became convinced that God had gone blind
Or has an astigmatism or needs glasses or something.
I lost my faith in all things right there.
I even lost my faith in my species,
Hoping that Descartes was completely wrong with
Cogito Ergo Sum, and that I wasn't real,
And only an illusion to something else
That makes no sense to me,
If me is what I am.
That's when I decided that I'm never going to Wal-Mart ever again.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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23
what is right can sometimes be wrong,
like the right of a state to kill,
that to me is wrong,
like the right to have slaves
that was wrong, but they once
thought it was right,
something that feels so right
may, sometimes, be also be wrong,
like feeling love, and too much love
for a neighbor or yourself,
it can be intoxicating at times,
and it can kill you,
because what is right exists only
in our human minds,
limited, too narrow, too
confined in our flesh and blood,
in the context of our culture,
in the frames of our time,
to the dictates of religion
the liberality of our education,
to our biases and prejudices,
what we believe in, what we
touch with faith in dark places
what we try to light with candles,
or see in microscopes or see in
telescopes, or see with our eyes
and hearts wide open,
may still be wrong, or
still be not right,
so what is right after all?
Possibly, this can be right,
But possibly this can also be wrong,
We can always pray. But the doubt
Is always there. Cogito ergo sum.
Who can really be sure?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Is Right Can Sometimes Be Wrong
what is right can sometimes be wrong,
like the right of a state to kill,
that to me is wrong,
like the right to have slaves
that was wrong, but they once
thought it was right,
something that feels so right
may, sometimes, be also be wrong,
like feeling love, and too much love
for a neighbor or yourself,
it can be intoxicating at times,
and it can kill you,
because what is right exists only
in our human minds,
limited, too narrow, too
confined in our flesh and blood,
in the context of our culture,
in the frames of our time,
to the dictates of religion
the liberality of our education,
to our biases and prejudices,
what we believe in, what we
touch with faith in dark places
what we try to light with candles,
or see in microscopes or see in
telescopes, or see with our eyes
and hearts wide open,
may still be wrong, or
still be not right,
so what is right after all?
Possibly, this can be right,
But possibly this can also be wrong,
We can always pray. But the doubt
Is always there. Cogito ergo sum.
Who can really be sure?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cartesian Shopping
When all of our home spun philosophies
Focus on shopping and spending and such
Then its time to redress priorities
For those things don't mean very much.
It's hard to imagine Pythagoras
Out shopping with Plato and Kant
Debating the appeal of the packaging
Of something they really don't want.
Now I know we all shop 'cos we have to eat
And we're keen on good prices it seems
But all of these retailing strategies
Seem to be trying too hard for our dreams.
So I turned to another philosopher
To understand what is going on
His words have a truth that now resonates
Like 'I shop and therefore I am'.
Well that's not precisely the words he said
He was a Frenchman and had to obscure
The truth that we now have to contemplate
When Wal Mart we have to endure.
Ah, Rene Descartes was a genius
He had matters under his thumb
When asked to go shopping he'd decline
Just saying 'cogito ergo sum'.
poem by David Keig
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Descartes' Despair
How can we affirm our own existence?
Cogito ergo sum, Descartes said,
I think therefore I am.
But wait!
Who is doing the thinking?
The body?
Am I my body?
Well, Descartes explained, we are talking about
Two incompatible substances:
The unextended and indivisible mind
In contrast with the extended and divisible matter,
Res cogitans versus res extensa.
Yes, but am I my body?
How is the contact created
Between the mental
And the physical worlds?
Princess Elizabeth of the Palatinate asked.
Well, somewhere at the base of the brain,
In the pineal gland, replied the philosopher.
Oh, I have a problem with that,
The princess remarked.
For, if the brain exists in space,
How can the non-spatial mind dwell in it?
And Descartes threw up his hands
In despair.
poem by Paul Hartal
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A Cartesian life co-odinated
The year is 1607; the place, the lodgings
of the Jesuit College Royal Henri-le-Grand
at La Fleche; it’s evening;
around a flickering candle
three boys of eleven years,
bright young faces against black robes,
bright eyes, lit in each pupil by the candle flame;
too young yet to be tired
by their day of such demanding study,
they laugh over a game
designed to improve their knowledge
of the Latin terms that they must learn:
the one whose father is a High Court judge
of course knows most; yet is most bored;
such is a father’s ambition for his son…
the game, easily constructed without expense:
pieces of paper in a Jesuit cap
on each of which, a simple Latin word
most likely to be required for formal argument
in pulpit, in the courts of law:
the game, to be the first to draw
words which can make a sentence
that can pass for logical…
Bright, bored René draws first:
‘Ergo’ – ‘therefore’: they all groan; the very word
speaks study, formal argument..
the others draw their words;
in the second round, our René draws
‘Sum’ – I exist, I am’’
the third round: excitement intensifies:
can three words make a sentence fit
for speaking in this holy, hallowed place?
gods hold their breath; angels
hover on the wing; Fate shakes the dice;
nature, nurture, weighty past,
all conspire to set the seal
upon four centuries of future thought…
flushed young face and slow-moved hand
stretch out suspense in childish fun…
‘Cogito…’ reads René’s paper scrap…
how was the eleven-year-old to know
that his next words—so lightly spoke,
so soon discarded to the vaults of memory –
would shape a life, a nation’s self-drawn image,
more volumes in more languages
than any could imagine then?
alas! as every being in the heavens
awaited human statement of the greater truth
which would awaken mortal man
to his divine inheritance…
‘Sum, ergo, cogito’… they whisper to the Fates…
‘I am, I exist; therefore, I think…’
alas! Man’s hubris won the day…
‘Cogito, ergo sum! ’ shouts our triumphant René -
‘J’ai gagné! J’ai gagné! ’
and even God was heard to sigh…
The boys laugh; the game is won, discarded;
instant forgetfulness washes Lethe-like
over young minds; it will be thirty years
before our René dredges from his mind,
significance; human hubris; method; discourse…
sets the thinking world by egoistic ears…
and so four centuries of self-assertive Frenchmen
will gaze and talk with philosophic love
into the eyes of mesmerised
nubile young girls across the coffee-cups
of tables on the sidewalks of the boulevards;
proud to be born French; the nation
knowing that they, above all, they hold the secret
of philosophy, of life: we are, I am, born to think..
je suis né pour penser…
and what of being itself,
and what of consciousness,
that enfolds ‘I am’…?
mon pauvre, mon semblable, mon frere… mon assassin…
hélas! hélas! …
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My left knee and me
the memory of my birthing
like
the memory of my dying
was
is/
and
will/
forever
be lost
to me/
it was thus
a surprise/
not at all pleasant
but still
a surprise/
that as i tiptoed silently
last week/
from quinquagenary
to sexagenary/
the memory of my left knee’s being
made itself quite plain to me/
in lieu
of cogito/ ergo sum
i am thinking/ therefore i exist
as rené would have it/
my knee has twisted
this Cartesian syllogism
awry/
i am aching/ therefore you are/
the dogma of thinking being/
mutating/ transforming/
to the tenet of paining existing/
and so as i amble through
this decade sans nine days
with a limp/ i could lose/
i shall miss/ the company/
the companionship/
of dear friend/ of beloved kin/
but/
i can look forward/ to
a certain constancy/
that only death could cleave apart
my aching left knee and me//
poem by Renato Mascardo
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Unforgottable Eyes
you used to bloom
in my solitude...in my loneliness
blue and green
you used to bloom
rabbit blood, with henna, transparent
then i used to overcome
pains, worries and treachery
i want to go
i want to go to exile
to lie
i want to lie is dungeon in your eyes
wjy and how
where are your eyes now
it is not something like
to be or not to be
it is not
cogito ergo sun too
the real thing is
to understand
the unavoidable
the non stopping avalanche
the ungoing circuit
i want to drink
i want to drink the moonlight in your eyes
to reach
i want to reach secrecy of the soul in your eyes
why and how
where are your eyes now
you were a soul
hidden in my secret soul
it was not blood
but our love was flowing into the nights
when the executor tightened the rope on our throats
i want to
i want to listen to the three trees in your eyes
i want to be silent
to be silent in your eyes
like a sharp blade
why and how
where are your relieving eyes now
Ahmet ARIF
Translation Metin SAHIN
poem by Metin Sahin
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Between Walls Between Walls
walls around us
always walls around us
morning till noon
till night walls always walls between
us i try to inser some words
of consolation between us
all walls rain walls between us
there is no word for us
for it
we, it, we, us, there is nothing
between us
air, between, us, air, air, air,
between us, still walls, walls,
speak, speak
why, why are these walls still walls
between us
i guess, you are dead, then
cogito, eureka,
will i be a happy man then?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mr. Cogito and the Imagination
Mr. Cogito never trusted
tricks of the imagination
the piano at the top of the Alps
played false concerts for him
he didn't appreciate labyrinths
the Sphinx filled him with loathing
he lived in a house with no basement
without mirrors of dialectics
jungles of tangled images
were not his home
he would rarely soar
on the wings of metaphor
and then he fell like Icarus
into the embrace of the Great Mother
he adored tautologies
explanations
idem per idem
that a bird is a bird
slavery means slavery
a knife is a knife
death remains death
he loved
the flat horizon
a straight line
the gravity of the earth
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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A Touch Is A Touch
feeling, flowing free and fleeting,
floating swimming on waves of neurons
pulsing skipping, somersaulting,
up, down and around resounding
in cogito or incognito, wrapped enveloped
till a drowsy psyche wishes
or willful consciousness
put more meaning
each road a different scenario
rapport by lexis or gesture
clothed the naked feeling
with fine raiment and ornament
Deco, Art Nouveau. or Rococo
tones of Gregorian or jazz
glimmering suns and cotton clouds
silky and diaphanous ethereal transparent
send, evoking embracing the spirit,
ah me, I do run off, what if the
touch was a mere accident a simple
contact of coarse physical, neither
intended nor unintended?
poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Ergo Bibamus!
FOR a praiseworthy object we're now gather'd here,
So, brethren, sing: ERGO BIBAMUS!
Tho' talk may be hush'd, yet the glasses ring clear,
Remember then: ERGO BIBAMUS!
In truth 'tis an old, 'tis an excellent word,
With its sound so befitting each bosom is stirr'd,
And an echo the festal hall filling is heard,
A glorious ERGO BIBAMUS!
I saw mine own love in her beauty so rare,
And bethought me of: ERGO BIBAMUS;
So I gently approach'd, and she let me stand there,
While I help'd myself, thinking: BIBAMUS!
And when she's appeased, and will clasp you and kiss,
Or when those embraces and kisses ye miss,
Take refuge, till sound is some worthier bliss,
In the comforting ERGO BIBAMUS!
I am call'd by my fate far away from each friend;
Ye loved ones, then: ERGO BIBAMUS!
With wallet light-laden from hence I must wend.
So double our ERGO BIBAMUS!
Whate'er to his treasures the niggard may add,
Yet regard for the joyous will ever be had,
For gladness lends over its charms to the glad,
So, brethren, sing; ERGO BIBAMUS!
And what shall we say of to-day as it flies?
I thought but of: ERGO BIBAMUS
'Tis one of those truly that seldom arise,
So again and again sing: BIBAMUS!
For joy through a wide-open portal it guides,
Bright glitter the clouds, as the curtain divides,
An a form, a divine one, to greet us in glides,
While we thunder our: ERGO BIBAMUS!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Crucial Questions 0927 Current Version
Channelled energy must churn accumulated dust.
hereafters show scant scope for blossoms fresh to flower.
aired options in Cornucopia & Co evaporate bare rust.
new mantle don to save eleventh hour.
gather, before you sup, Life's roses, perfumed power,
exhilaration s[c]ent. Who'd in Tomorrow trust?
All life links into chains whose sk[e]ins evolve
as day and night spin circle seasons' clock.
Accelerating change spurs youth to mock
old cycles - life leaves little space to solve
crucial questions before cocoons dissolve
as dust, forgotten before we unlock
doors to answers that - if found - might shock.
Few grasp ‘Why? When? ' intrinsically involve
uncertainties societies seldom solve -
lies turning truths steal through time's steel door, knock.
This means far more than information stock
as Life's equations' causal wheels revolve
round intuitions treading track tire way
to 'whee[d]le' ‘truth' within in short s[p]in stay.
Apprenticeship is process which reminds
of stages spun, cocoon to chrysalis,
ceaselessly recycled 'til time's blinds
are drawn to find no memory men miss.
Tedious ties of social intercourse
in transit through their metamorphosis
evolve until accepted as divorce
between guess, stress, contest, and catharsis.
Thus crucial questions spin round 'cogito
ergo sum' sum birth, mirth, dearth, earth his_
_story, half-truth tale told 'til time to go.
Is search for self as such non sequitur,
Eye is earth's centre, end, rough edge to cure.
Until 'our revels ended these our actors'
seem figurants in egocentric dream,
contributing passive causal factors
to acts on stage off centre, though they teem.
This team's composed of isolate reactors
each testing Why? and Wherefore? as we deem
appropriate to phantom subcontractors
subservient to whim whipped cream of cream.
Thus solipsist must test through interactors
how life's flow's fed 'til fled when soul would seem
transformed to other stage, turns page refractors
to earn star centre point in further scheme.
Can crucial questions ever disappear
when far is near and in between, there here?
(11 January 2009)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Long Ago
De ol' time's gone, de new time's hyeah
Wid all hits fuss an' feddahs;
I done fu'got de joy an' cheah
We knowed all kin's o' weddahs,
I done fu'got each ol'-time hymn
We ust to sing in meetin';
I 's leahned de prah's, so neat an' trim,
De preachah keeps us 'peatin'.
Hang a vine by de chimney side,
An' one by de cabin do';
An' sing a song fu' de day dat died,
De day of long ergo.
My youf, hit's gone, yes, long ergo,
An' yit I ain't a-moanin';
Hit 's fu' somet'ings I ust to know
I set to-night a-honin'.
De pallet on de ol' plank flo',
De rain bar'l und' de eaves,
De live oak 'fo' de cabin do',
Whaih de night dove comes an' grieves.
Hang a vine by de chimney side,
An' one by de cabin do';
An' sing a song fu' de day dat died,
De day of long ergo.
I 'd lak a few ol' frien's to-night
To come an' set wid me;
An' let me feel dat ol' delight
I ust to in dey glee.
But hyeah we is, my pipe an' me,
Wid no one else erbout;
We bofe is choked ez choked kin be,
An' bofe 'll soon go out.
Hang a vine by de chimney side,
An' one by de cabin do';
An' sing a song fu' de day dat died,
De day of long ergo.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Bibo, ergo sum. - I drink, therefore I am
quote by Fredirect Toyou
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dubito ergo sum - I doubt therefore I am
quote by Kayvan Sylvan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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