Philosopher Found
Philosopher Found
It slips away as easy as cat’s milk, bone dust, plans.
Memory jousts with confusion, lip synchs with extroverts and
Bends back the paper back cover of a used book,
A philosopher found.
It must be Montaigne and what of it?
That peace and a good meal and satisfaction of the aristocracy and
Extension of empire and technique and language and scholarship
Are within human grasp and the humane grasp is the ethical thing,
The survivor’s story – Football contests on New Year’s Day,
The crowds, the hype, the young and perturbed having a good time,
Mixing it up like the boys on the rink.
The dicey side of togetherness, one was,
Subconsciously cohabiting beyond ourselves
Like a history of moving in and moving out,
Pressed on all sides to begin again,
Advancing, holding gain and dying
Like a Russian knee deep in lies.
New Year, better butchery by air and by sea –
We have bubbles that rise from the deep –
Dante’s deep, his bright, his high, his verse
As from Milton who shepherded the devil from so far away,
Like long ago where Paradise was lost.
Like a desert where the human ancestor carved a niche.
Resplendent reflection of the inner life,
The dream writing on the wall, a better way.
Writ large for young guns and aging masters,
Uncertain of footing and aim.
The requisite uncertainty of self-doubt,
Pride and shame contending.
Strong arms, deep shadows
By the bulk of ocean going vessels with the supply chain,
The interconnected global economy and all –
Not ruled by court or law directly.
Interpersonally, it is up to us.
Individually- nothing is from nothing born.
One as once upon a time,
A drone harem, eunuch guards who have had enough play,
Enough wine, blood and cruelty.
The Builder’s Arms and a rich, creamy pint
That muffles and eases like heavy snow over time.
A deep meditation of quiet, dark sky precipitating-
Rhyming – forcing the question back upon us,
Another layer, a light touch of séance and concentration
Evaporated to leave this level of salts,
Gypsum beside the highway.
Bad water, not potable for human uses,
A time keeper, repository of aquifer and knowledge
Held in the mute cold of planets turning
Almost forever but never forever.
Never forgetting dimes on eyes.
Blustering at the pulpit,
Bully bruised in nakedness but still raised,
Raising by song, by rote naming of noumena,
Saturnalia and degradation.
Ashes and ashes and dust risen as far as the eye can see.
Sleeping below the content of waves,
Hinting little fish like thrown darts at the heart of it all,
Turning undaunted, upturned, cold and by degrees of time-
Hot again on a desolate shore.
A time and a place to do thinking,
Imagining as it is.
A smudge of smoke like the water’s bubbles rising
In air, divine and high.
By Rolf Stavig 1/14/24
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