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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Related quotes
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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Cogito cogito ergo cogito sum
quote by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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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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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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Rene And Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After The War
Words & music by Paul Simon
Rene and Georgette Magritte
With their dog after the war
Returned to their hotel suite
And they unlocked the door
Easily losing their evening clothes
They danced by the light of the moon
To the Penguins, the Moonglows
The Orioles, and The Five Satins
The deep forbidden music
They'd been longing for
Rene and Georgette Magritte
With their dog after the war
Rene and Georgette Magritte
With their dog after the war
Were strolling down Christopher Street
When they stopped in a men's store
With all of the mannequins dressed in the style
That brought tears to their immigrant eyes
Just like The Penguins, the Moonglows
The Orioles, and The Five Satins
The easy stream of laughter
Flowing through the air
Rene and Georgette Magritte
With their dog apres la guerre
Side by side
They fell asleep
Decades gliding by like Indians
Time is cheap
When they wake up they will find
All their personal belongings
Have intertwined
Oh Rene and Georgette Magritte
With their dog after the war
Were dining with the power elite
And they looked in their bedroom drawer
And what do you think
They have hidden away
In the cabinet cold of their hearts?
The Penguins, the Moonglows
The Orioles, and The Five Satins
For now and ever after
As it was before
Rene and Georgette Magritte
With their dog after the war
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rene & Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After The War
Words & music by paul simon
Rene and georgette magritte
With their dog after the war
Returned to their hotel suite
And they unlocked the door
Easily losing their evening clothes
They danced by the light of the moon
To the penguins, the moonglows
The orioles, and the five satins
The deep forbidden music
Theyd been longing for
Rene and georgette magritte
With their dog after the war
Rene and georgette magritte
With their dog after the war
Were strolling down christopher street
When they stopped in a mens store
With all of the mannequins dressed in the style
That brought tears to their immigrant eyes
Just like the penguins, the moonglows
The orioles, and the five satins
The easy stream of laughter
Flowing through the air
Rene and georgette magritte
With their dog apres la guerre
Side by side
They fell asleep
Decades gliding by like indians
Time is cheap
When they wake up they will find
All their personal belongings
Have intertwined
Oh rene and georgette magritte
With their dog after the war
Were dining with the power elite
And they looked in their bedroom drawer
And what do you think
They have hidden away
In the cabinet cold of their hearts?
The penguins, the moonglows
The orioles, and the five satins
For now and ever after
As it was before
Rene and georgette magritte
With their dog after the war
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Conjugating
I conjugate the verb to be:
miracle sentences;
non-existent one moment
then coming into Being
utterly unique the next;
perhaps never before
uttered
in all of existence
before this
moment,
on this page
at this time
from this mind.
Miracle this,
shared by all of us.
I conjugate the verb Coming into Being
from Potentialities of Being
trolling for words not yet extent
having some portion of Being
but not yet born
on Poet Pages.
I conjugate the verb Now Being Born
words coupling in sentences
flowing down
forming paragraphs
couplets, rhymes,
emotional hieroglyphics,
history,
Ideas
and glifs,
and then they
are on to Being Past.
In single verbs
we lash together
all Being;
that which is Now Born on pages,
that which was written yesterday
and those word-stories
we borrow
from future sentences
yet to be born
which live only in our dreams.
We conjure all this
from that Beautiful Nothingness
where Creativity lives
where unexpectedly
these Beings
come as daytime
and night-time sprites
into life
shine as diamond-faceted
moon-beams
changing who we are
as they transit.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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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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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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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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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 Better Moment
there has never been a better moment
for it is silent
in the isolation is born the seeds of creativity
inspired by the passion for need
a hemisphere contained by the white picket fence
and a garden of words, to reach beyond the sphere of a world we know
boundaries lost, by a driven ambition
simpler days, humbled by the greatness of an oasis
there has never been a better moment
poem by M. Rene Riel
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Wearing The Inside Out
From morning to night I stayed out of sight
Didnt recognise what Id become
No more than alive Id barely survive
In a word...overrun
Wont hear a sound
From my mouth
Ive spent too long
On the inside out
My skin is cold
To the human touch
This bleeding hearts
Not beating much
I murmured a vow of silence and now
I dont even hear when I think aloud
Extinguished by light I turn on the night
Wear its darkness with an empty smile
Im creeping back to life
My nervous system all away
Im wearing the inside out
Look at him now
Hes paler somehow
But hes coming round
Hes starting to choke
Its been so long since he spoke
Well he can have the words right from my mouth
And with these words I can see
Clear through the clouds that covered me
Just give it time then speak my name
Now we can hear ourselves again
Im holding out
For the day
When all the clouds
Have blown away
Im with you now
Can speak your name
Now we can hear
Ourselves again
Hes curled into the corner
But still the screen is flickering
With an endless stream of garbage to
...curse the place
In a sea of random images
The self-destructing animal
Waiting for the waves to break
Hes standing on the threshold
Caught in fiery anger
And hurled into the furnace hell
...curse the place
Hes torn in all directions
And the screen is still flickering
Waiting for the flames to break
song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Skin of Light
The skin of light enveloping this world lacks depth and I can actually see the black night of all these
similar bodies beneath the trembling veil and light of myself it is this night that even the mask of the
sun cannot hide from me I am the seer of night the auditor of silence for silence too is dressed in
sonorous skin and each sense has its own night even as I do I am my own night I am the conceiver
of non-being and of all its splendor I am the father of death she is its mother she whom I evoke
from the perfect mirror of night i am the great inside-out man my words are a tunnel punched
through silence I understand all disillusionment I destroy what I become I kill what I love.
poem by Rene Daumal
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One Day The Tables Will Turn
In this senseless game you play
How you lead him so to believe
Love is just a mere toy for you
Watch them cry as you leave
Your heart is cold and cruel
How you want to be first in place
You speak words without feeling
Smile without remorse on your face
One Day The Tables Will Turn
Love you laugh is but a riddle you say
Kiss them and watch them all go
Think with your head and not heart
How can you speak so very low
Time will come one day you'll see
When your game will come to an end
Those times you laughed in loves face
You will regret my cold hearted friend
One Day The Tables Will Turn
poem by Suelynn Walters
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An Eternal Choice
We come into life with no choice, simply born as girls and boys.
We are born of a man and wife, through whom we enter into life,
They become Mom and Dad, teaching us what’s good and bad.
Making the early choices for us, as the people that we can trust,
To guide us in our early life, steering us from the pain and strife.
They make all the decisions too, of what we can and cannot do,
As they help us all to grow, learning the things we need to know.
Preparing children for a time, when choices are yours and mine.
They know there’s coming a day, when we’ll go a separate way,
When children leave their home, to make choices on their own.
As you live out your early days, you follow in your parent’s ways,
The choices early on in life, may not have included Jesus Christ.
When we leave that chosen path, we may invite a parent’s wrath,
In spite of your parent’s reproof, you must choose Words of Truth.
For when God’s Truth is ignored, we need to then seek The Lord.
Although from the very start, parents indeed have a critical part,
Many following their own heart, from their early ways will depart.
There is no bigger choice friend, than that of a man’s eternal end.
A choice that’s a personal one, when believing in God’s Only Son,
For the only way to eternal life, is choosing the gift of Jesus Christ.
The parents of girls and boys, can’t make a child’s eternal choice,
Even if they known the Only Way, it is a decision you must make.
No one can make for you or me, the one choice regarding eternity.
That choice in which you believe, must be made before you leave,
And only with this eternal choice, when you leave, will you rejoice.
(Copyright ©06/2006)
He who creates re-creates himself
for René Passeron
You may not grow old too soon
if
Things you have known will come back to you again
No revision nor recall need put them back in place
Time was when you knew the time
the place the face
Even the scarce women in prized moments gone in pain
Who would care nor what would it matter
in which life upon what water
you have trailed your fingers
upon waves of papers
Let your mind brush
some canvas in a rush
Left your mark
upon some bark
Wed some wanton women
spawned wholesome omens
Made as if the artier your words
held some moment in a perennial frame
Never to be banged away by fading suns
collapsing quasars
asteroid storms
puncturing galaxies
usurping black holes
Can this act of writing seize the moment
Or is it your way of saying
What else is there to be done?
Let the unknowable undermine the unknown
Here on this planet
we have made our sinuous conventions
stick to paper and canvas
stone and sound
And words that are haloed
by the sickness of the poet
though all is not lost for the pen
whose blood will
possess
anchor
expose
our futile justifications
explications
ratiocinations
doctoral dissertations
And generations will tremulously grant him
The right to unravel the eternities
For one who dared capture the moment
In the capsule of a poem
Dedicated to René Passeron
(©: T.Wignesan 1987 April 12,1987 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Pub. in T. Wignesan. Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008. 'Poem of the Month' at Alongstoryshort site, April 2012.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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