After Jacques-Louis David's "The Death of Socrates", 1787, oil on canvas
Your peers are gathered in the cell
like autumn leaves. Their reservations
dried them out to kindle, curl and twist
in the match’s fire, stricken on opinion;
meditation did not burn.
Old-man-sitting-where-you-shouldn't,
your age is a singing whippoorwill
at noon, unless echoes of the stories
reified in detail all around you, down
to the embroidered arrows on the sleeve
of a swooning colleague, achieving
what you taught of Form and how
things appear. You were the fire-starter.
In contrast to your teacher,
your apotheosis of opinion
is as tranquil, yet
a bitter one.
Death of Socrates
After Jacques-Louis David's "The Death of Socrates", 1787, oil on canvas
There's a burn pile, in the cell,
of autumn leaves lit by a match
stricken on opinion that set aflame
your colleagues' doubts;
meditation didn't burn.
Old-man-sitting-where-you-shouldn't,
your dotage is a singing whippoorwill
at noon, unless an echo of the stories
reified in detail all around you, down
to the embroidered arrows on the sleeve
of a swooning colleague, contradicting
what you taught of Form
and how things appear.
You were the fire-starter.
In contrast to your teacher, the
culmination of your beliefs is
as tranquil yet
a bitter one.
Edit 3: Death of Socrates
After Jacques-Louis David's "The Death of Socrates", 1787, oil on canvas
Indifferent fingers wander towards
death- swilling in a copper cup,
offered by the crimson executioner.
This room contains a burn pile
of autumn leaves started by a match
stricken on opinion that set aflame
the students' doubts;
meditation didn't burn.
Old-man-sitting-where-you-shouldn't,
your age is a singing whippoorwill
at noon, unless an echo of the stories
reified in detail all around you,
down to the arrows on the sleeve
of a swooning cohort, contradicting
what you taught of Form
and how things appear.
You were the fire-starter.
In contrast to your teacher,
the pinnacle of your beliefs
is as tranquil yet
a bitter one.
Edit 2: Death of Socrates
After Jacques-Louis David's "The Death of Socrates", 1787, oil on canvas
Indifferent fingers hover towards
death- swilling in a copper cup,
offered by the crimson executioner.
This room contains a burn pile
of autumn leaves started by a match
stricken on opinion that set aflame
the students' doubts;
meditation didn't burn.
Old man, you sit where you shouldn't
and old, you shouldn't be. Unless
an echo of stories in your absence
reified in detail all around you,
down to the arrows on the sleeve
of a swooning cohort- contradicting
what you taught of Form and how
things appear.
In contrast to your teacher,
the apotheosis of your beliefs
is a bitter one.
Edit 1: Death of Socrates
I guess Asclepius is owed a cock,
whatever that means.
The philosopher who said it
said it as he pointed up,
explaining how we can be unaware
because our souls forget things like
an apple's sopping crunch, to Crito--
who is tugging at his pendent thigh.
His other leg is placed upon
the makeshift lectern of a mattress,
protruding from his drapery
like morning light would mutely break
through dusty curtains onto bed,
glowing like his chest.
Being sure enough
that hemlock washes down like wine
will get the executioner,
who couldn't even bear to watch,
demoted to the job of cupbearer
and death to getting blackout drunk.
I would love to be that sure.
In this final lecture,
the apotheosis of opinion
seemed to overwhelm Apollodorus,
who left the room and grinds his brow
against stone, and his swooning students,
who curl and twist
like autumn leaves in a burn pile.
Except for one
who seemed older than he should've been,
and wasn't dressed in autumn colors,
and shouldn't be where he is seated-
unless stories of his teacher's death
reified behind his head
every imagined detail down
to the needlework of arrows
on a student's sleeves,
real enough to contradict
what he taught of Form and how
things appear.
I bet he knew just what his teacher meant
about some roosters being owed
in the moment that he bowed his head
to let his eyelids rest beneath reflective shades;
I'll get around to googling
his teacher's final words.
Original: Death of Socrates
I guess Asclepius is owed a cock,
whatever that means.
The philosopher who said it,
said it with a finger propped
on how we can be green because
our souls forget things like
an apple's sopping crunch, to Crito--
who is clinging to his pendent thigh.
His other leg is placed upon
the makeshift lectern of a mattress,
protruding from his drapery
like morning light would mutely break
through dusty curtains into bed,
glowing like his chest.
I envy just how sure he is;
reaching for the hemlock
as if it was a glass of wine,
as if the executioner
was nothing but a cupbearer
who cannot even bear to watch
and death was just a drunken dream.
In this final lecture,
the apotheosis of opinion
seemed too much for Apollodorus,
who grinds his brow
against stone, Xanthippe,
who grieves just past the hall,
and his swooning students,
who curl and twist
like autumn leaves in a burn pile.
Except for one
who seems a little older,
and isn't dressed in autumn colors,
and shouldn't be where he is seated--
unless the stories of his master's death
manifested into strapping colors
strong enough to lift their limbs
from the canvas, contradicting
his teachings of ideal and phenomena.
The man was Plato, and I bet he knew
what his teacher meant
by owing some medicine god a cock
when his spine was tied to
a dumbbell of decrepitude.
I'll know too
--right now, I don't--
nor would I intend to.
I guess Asclepius is owed a cock,
whatever that means.-------- Had to look that reference up, but now that I get it I like it for an opening
The philosopher who said it,
said it with a finger propped
on how we can be green because
our souls forget things like
an apple's sopping crunch, to Crito--
who is clinging to his pendent thigh. ------- I'm reminded of the Crito dialogue, where Crito tries to convince Socrates to escape his death sentence, I think a word like tugging might serve you better here, just a thought though
His other leg is placed upon
the makeshift lectern of a mattress,
protruding from his drapery
like morning light would mutely break
through dusty curtains into bed,
glowing like his chest.------------------- Glowing across his chest possibly?
I envy just how sure he is; ------- I can relate to that line
reaching for the hemlock
as if it was a glass of wine, ------- as if it were?
as if the executioner
was nothing but a cupbearer
who cannot even bear to watch ---------- who could not watch, not sure about the repetition of bear there
and death was just a drunken dream.
In this final lecture,
the apotheosis of opinion
seemed too much for Apollodorus,
who grinds his brow
against stone, Xanthippe,
who grieves just past the hall,
and his swooning students,
who curl and twist
like autumn leaves in a burn pile.
Except for one
who seems a little older,
and isn't dressed in autumn colors,
and shouldn't be where he is seated-
unless the stories of his master's death
manifested into strapping colors
strong enough to lift their limbs
from the canvas, contradicting
his teachings of ideal and phenomena.--------- I might use Form and Appearance here personally its a little more in Plato's language... This stanza is close, but since Plato's writings predate the painting I would consider changing it to a projection or something like that into the room or onto the canvas, rather than limbs lifted from it
The man was Plato, and I bet he knew
what his teacher meant
by owing some medicine god a cock
when his spine was tied to
a dumbbell of decrepitude.
I'll know too --------------- This line might make a good ending really. It hits harder for me that way I think, the thought of impending aging and death
--right now, I don't--
nor would I intend to.
I'll have to come back and read this in a couple of days. Definitely a lot going on here. I like how you withhold the first person perspective until the very end though, it gives the poem a final tonal shift that puts it over the top.
Hi Sam12,
Thank you kindly for your feedback. I'll be sure to makes some changes with your thoughts in mind. Also, for some reason, I was lead to believe Plato put his faith of realism in the appearance of things instead of Form. I'll definitely have to change that.
(10-03-2017, 01:02 PM)alexorande Wrote: I've been meaning to return to this the moment I first caught this, but I had a lot on my plate the past few weeks, plus this is definitely a lot to digest. That said, I'll give it my best -- and I don't think I'm not one to post weighty pieces, either.
Death of a Philosopher
After Jacques-Louis David's "The Death of Socrates," oil on canvas, 1787The picture on the start is good enough.
I guess Asclepius is owed a cock,
whatever that means.
The philosopher who said it,
said it with a finger propped
on how we can be green because "Green?"
our souls forget things like
an apple's sopping crunch, to Crito--
who is clinging to his pendent thigh. I get the use of pendent -- as uncommon a word as it is, the register's pretty highfalutin -- but what I don't get is the terrible, terrible sentence structure. "The philosopher who said it said it (note that there shouldn't be a comma there) with a finger propped on [his topic] (a finger propped on [his topic]?) because our souls forget like [his topic], to Crito." That doesn't quite make sense in a poem that has to make a lot of sense.
His other leg is placed upon
the makeshift lectern of a mattress,
protruding from his drapery
like morning light would mutely break
through dusty curtains into bed, onto bed
glowing like his chest. Not quite clear what's glowing, or if his chest should be "glowing" at all.
I envy just how sure he is;
reaching for the hemlock
as if it was a glass of wine, "If it were".
as if the executioner
was nothing but a cupbearer "were nothing but".
who cannot even bear to watch who could not
and death was just a drunken dream. Again, rather awkward: this reads as if "death was just a drunken dream" to the cupbearer who "could not even bear to watch". Speaking of awkwardness, if Socrates were so insane that "death seemed but a driunken dream", then the executioner who "were nothing but a cupbearer" shouldn't "not even bear to watch", not unless he had good imagined reason. Mixed metaphor here.
In this final lecture,
the apotheosis of opinion
seemed too much for Apollodorus,
who grinds his brow
against stone, Xanthippe, Xanthippe grieving for her cuckold husband's death? Massively out of character, even if it's in the painting.
who grieves just past the hall,
and his swooning students,
who curl and twist
like autumn leaves in a burn pile.
Except for one The isolation of this line, even the separation of this and the following lines, seems a little cheap.
who seems a little older,
and isn't dressed in autumn colors,
and shouldn't be where he is seated- Ugh! Two hyphens for an em dash, not one. xD
unless the stories of his master's death
manifested into strapping colors "manifested" indicates a change of tense that reads more clumsy than intentional.
strong enough to lift their limbs
from the canvas, contradicting
his teachings of ideal and phenomena. I don't see how the "stories of his master's death" "manifest themselves into strapping colors", especially since, to the Plato of the painting, they're not just stories -- Socrates is still there, and Plato is there as witness.
The man was Plato, and I bet he knew
what his teacher meant
by owing some medicine god a cock I bet it meant "me dying means society's cancer is cured", or "me dying is a cure to life" or something silly and romantic like that. Still, I'm neither Socrates nor Plato, but the speaker's unknowing here doesn't really say anything about the speaker, I think.
when his spine was tied to
a dumbbell of decrepitude. "a dumbbell of decrepitude"? Too much, I think.
I'll know too
--right now, I don't--
nor would I intend to.
Style notes. Out of time down here in the lib -- will dissect meaning, and quality of its content, later.
Thank you for the comments. I used the word green in the first stanza because of how it can mean inexperienced and also provide some imagery. I guess it didn't go over well. I do agree with you about the second sentence's structure in the first stanza being pretty sloppy, and I'll make sure to clean it up. I wanted to do something with the gesture Socrates was making with his finger pointing up, so I'll have to find another way to reword it. If you have any suggestions on that part I'll be more than happy to hear them.
Plato wasn't present for Socrates' execution, so I wanted to do something with him being there and being older than he should've been. And his final words before he died meant that he was cured of life as a disease and sacrificing a rooster to Asclepius was their way of giving thanks, but if I'm wrong on any of this, please correct me.
I'll be sure to have your thoughts in mind when editing.
Still awkward. Tries to say too many things at once, perhaps. A dissection:
I guess Asclepius is owed a cock, Chief thought, "Asclepius is owed a cock", which to the knowledgeable
whatever that means. means something. The blasé confusion of the speaker here doesn't particularly say anything: the layman remains uninitiated, and the initiated go "oh, Asclepius is the god of medicine, etc etc etc". Plus the whole nature of the speaker's unknowing here isn't really explored until the final stanza, with everything else making it seem like he (she?) actually knows stuff.
The philosopher who said it Two: says it. Which, again, only means something to the initiated, although in this case the title is enough of a
said it as he pointed up, pointer. That said, this is thought three, with lines one and two being all about the phrase, line three being all about who said it, and this being all about the gesture visible in the painting.
explaining how we can be unaware
because our souls forget things like But then thought four, where Socrates is supposedly explaining something, apparently while (or via) saying "Asclepius is owed a cock"? at which point, both the initiated and the uninitiated are confused.
an apple's sopping crunch, to Crito-- Five: "to Crito". And this time, even grammar tears out hairs -- at the very least, invent the new sentence "The philosopher who said it said it to Crito, who is tugging at his pendent thigh."
who is tugging at his pendent thigh. All that said -- and I admit this may be due solely to taste -- the only thoughts of worth in this first stanza are those that directly reference the painting, not the life of Socrates, in small part because it would probably be best if you tried to make this piece more accessible, and in large part because actually sticking the painting up there immediately declares this to be an ekphrasis. Ie, remove the speaker's meaningless additions to "Asclepius is owed a cock", then continue with thoughts two and five.
His other leg is placed upon
the makeshift lectern of a mattress, Unintentionally hilarious phrasing: a lectern's the stand where you put a copy of your speech, not the podium at which you actually make your speech. Thus Socrates is equated to Zohan.
protruding from his drapery Can't quite tell whether it's the other leg or the mattress that protrudes.
like morning light would mutely break
through dusty curtains onto bed,
glowing like his chest. Can't quite tell whether it's the other leg or the mattress that glows -- also, that's a very weird "metaphor"(?), comparing the leg's (or the mattress's, or heck the morning's) glow to a man's chest. Sure, it's a poem, but the point is the whole is a little jumbled, at least to my limited readings.
Being sure enough
that hemlock washes down like wine
will get the executioner, Interesting line break, I guess, but for a moment I thought it was the hemlock that would get the executioner, and that's a point of confusion that really takes me out.
who couldn't even bear to watch, "Who" is the executioner, right? Best to establish this whole stanza as independent from the preceding, since this and the following is, again, a little jumbled -- in prose, "The executioner couldn't even bear to watch, even as he was demoted to the job of cupbearer, to death of getting blackout drunk -- Socrates was so sure that hemlock would wash down like wine." Or...something. That's still rather confusing (whose death, exactly, the executioner's or Socrates'?).
demoted to the job of cupbearer
and death to getting blackout drunk.
I would love to be that sure. As sure as the executioner "who couldn't even bear to watch", ostensibly the subject of this stanza?
In this final lecture,
the apotheosis of opinion This line just sounds pretentious.
seemed to overwhelm Apollodorus,
who left the room and grinds his brow I get how the different tenses work, but this still reads awkward -- maybe slot a "now" between "and" and "grinds"?
against stone, and his swooning students, Again, confusion! Apollodorus grinds his brow against stone and his (Socrates'? Apollodorus'?) swooning students? In this case, I can easily point to "his" being used twice, yet referring to different people, so this time it's at least far clearer to me what you're trying to say.
who curl and twist Comma before "and his swooning students" perhaps necessary, but after, and "who curl and twist" reads like you may have messed up, Apollodorus' brow curls and twists.
like autumn leaves in a burn pile. That said, at least this stanza is clear enough to properly present an image that mostly works.
Except for one Except for one autumn leaf?
who seemed older than he should've been, I didn't (and still don't) know how old Plato should have been at this time. When I first commented on this, I also forgot Plato wasn't supposed to be in the painting -- but honestly, the painting is not history, and since at all other times the speaker refers to the imagery of the painting, while at the same time professing a sort of ignorance to the history behind it all, it would make much more sense not to make such vague allusions as this.
and wasn't dressed in autumn colors,
and shouldn't be where he is seated- Ah, tense fail here: isn't dressed, since the rest of the poem is present.
unless stories of his teacher's death All the stuff on Plato's presence, though, this down to "things appear" is rather evocative, and considering how the confusion of the previous stanzas don't really inform Plato's agon here (in a way that effectively expands on the painting), I think a good place to start would be to isolate this stanza, and go from hence.
reified behind his head
every imagined detail down
to the needlework of arrows
on a student's sleeves,
real enough to contradict
what he taught of Form and how
things appear.
I bet he knew just what his teacher meant So too a lot of scholars -- or, at the least, neither him nor the scholars, since all listeners and readers could provide in the end is exegesis, and Socrates ostensibly did not dissect his final words.
about some roosters being owed
in the moment that he bowed his head
to let his eyelids rest beneath reflective shades; "let his eyelids rest beneath reflective shades" is again a bit pretentious,
I'll get around to googling which just makes "I'll get around to googling" make me want to swear at the speaker. Plus, the speaker just noted "his teacher's final words", and Google provides what's, not why's -- at the very least, "I'll get around to googling what those final words of his teacher's meant."
his teacher's final words.
So, yeah, confusion -- probably best to cut down to the penultimate stanza then restart from hence, but I like the kernel of this enough. For some lines, and for the syntax of most of your sentences, maybe try to sound poetic once everything's crystal; focus more on the painting, and its nature as a portrait of history, rather than on the history, or else totally excise it; and, in the case of your rather frustrating-to-read speaker, really get a handle on what your speaker's character in relation to all of this is, or if not, again, excise.
Thank you very much for your comments. It'll be in my thoughts once I begin my heavy revision.
This seems to be proving a harder subject to write about because I'm scattering over-elaborate thoughts. I agree with your thoughts on the penultimate stanza and I'm thinking of making that my starting point.
Question about ekphrastic poetry: When writing about an image, do you have to expand on the whole image being presented, or is it up to the poet to decide what details he chooses to expand on?
I'll offer some thoughts at this point. I appreciate how you've simplified it from the last version -- it's not as sprawling. I certainly agree with you that you were trying to cram way too many concepts into one piece.
As I understand, this genre of poetry doesn't have many hard and fast rules. You can talk about what you see in the picture or it can be generally inspired by the piece on whatever level you choose.
I think the two pitfalls you need to avoid are (1) being overly descriptive of the painting (it comes across as just prose and rather redundant since the reader can see for themselves) and (2) sounding too much like a philosophy textbook. This version seems to be better on both fronts, so
A couple of line by line notes:
(10-03-2017, 01:02 PM)alexorande Wrote: Death of Socrates
After Jacques-Louis David's "The Death of Socrates", 1787, oil on canvas
Indifferent fingers hover towards -- hovering is lingering near an object, unmoving or moving very little. "Toward" makes no sense to me here.
death- swilling in a copper cup,
offered by the crimson executioner.
This room contains a burn pile
of autumn leaves started by a match
stricken on opinion that set aflame
the students' doubts;
meditation didn't burn.
Old man, you sit where you shouldn't -- I like the voice here and in the next stanza, where the subjects of the painting are directly addressed. Having a conversation with the people in the picture is more engaging than musing to yourself about the painting. I'd use this voice throughout, if I were you.
and old, you shouldn't be. Unless -- There are a few things I don't like about this sentence structure. Primarily I object to the inversion of "you shouldn't be" instead of saying 'you shouldn't be old' which reads more naturally. Also, I don't like the repetition of old and shouldn't. Ending on the verb is also awkward. I don't think you can justify starting a sentence with "unless" since that means that this beginning sentence has no verb.
an echo of stories in your absence
reified in detail all around you,
down to the arrows on the sleeve
of a swooning cohort- contradicting -- there's no need for a hyphen...a comma will suffice after cohort, unless you're joining cohort and contradicting into one word. A hyphen is a different grammatical tool than the em dash. An em dash has the effect of setting off a phrase like parentheses.
what you taught of Form and how -- weak line break. The beginning and ending words of a line receive special emphasis, and there's no reason to highlight "how" here. I'd merge the fragment below with this line.
things appear.
In contrast to your teacher,
the apotheosis of your beliefs
is a bitter one. -- I like the comparison of bitterness with the presumed taste of the poison.
Edit 1: Death of Socrates
I guess Asclepius is owed a cock,
whatever that means.
The philosopher who said it
said it as he pointed up,
explaining how we can be unaware
because our souls forget things like
an apple's sopping crunch, to Crito--
who is tugging at his pendent thigh.
His other leg is placed upon
the makeshift lectern of a mattress,
protruding from his drapery
like morning light would mutely break
through dusty curtains onto bed,
glowing like his chest.
Being sure enough
that hemlock washes down like wine
will get the executioner,
who couldn't even bear to watch,
demoted to the job of cupbearer
and death to getting blackout drunk.
I would love to be that sure.
In this final lecture,
the apotheosis of opinion
seemed to overwhelm Apollodorus,
who left the room and grinds his brow
against stone, and his swooning students,
who curl and twist
like autumn leaves in a burn pile.
Except for one
who seemed older than he should've been,
and wasn't dressed in autumn colors,
and shouldn't be where he is seated-
unless stories of his teacher's death
reified behind his head
every imagined detail down
to the needlework of arrows
on a student's sleeves,
real enough to contradict
what he taught of Form and how
things appear.
I bet he knew just what his teacher meant
about some roosters being owed
in the moment that he bowed his head
to let his eyelids rest beneath reflective shades;
I'll get around to googling
his teacher's final words.
Original: Death of Socrates
I guess Asclepius is owed a cock,
whatever that means.
The philosopher who said it,
said it with a finger propped
on how we can be green because
our souls forget things like
an apple's sopping crunch, to Crito--
who is clinging to his pendent thigh.
His other leg is placed upon
the makeshift lectern of a mattress,
protruding from his drapery
like morning light would mutely break
through dusty curtains into bed,
glowing like his chest.
I envy just how sure he is;
reaching for the hemlock
as if it was a glass of wine,
as if the executioner
was nothing but a cupbearer
who cannot even bear to watch
and death was just a drunken dream.
In this final lecture,
the apotheosis of opinion
seemed too much for Apollodorus,
who grinds his brow
against stone, Xanthippe,
who grieves just past the hall,
and his swooning students,
who curl and twist
like autumn leaves in a burn pile.
Except for one
who seems a little older,
and isn't dressed in autumn colors,
and shouldn't be where he is seated--
unless the stories of his master's death
manifested into strapping colors
strong enough to lift their limbs
from the canvas, contradicting
his teachings of ideal and phenomena.
The man was Plato, and I bet he knew
what his teacher meant
by owing some medicine god a cock
when his spine was tied to
a dumbbell of decrepitude.
I'll know too
--right now, I don't--
nor would I intend to.
Overall, I think it's going in the right direction. You might also try writing it in meter or with a rhyme scheme to reinforce that it's poetry not prose.
I like that you're trying out different styles. It's always a good thing to push yourself in new directions as a writer.
Thank you for the comments and suggestions Lizzie. I think I might toy around with the meter once I get to an edit I'm more comfortable at. With that being said, here's an edit.
