10-03-2017, 01:02 PM
Death of Socrates
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.
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.
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.