The poet and the platonist
Were seated side by side
A carriage on the Circle Line
Was what they occupied,
While gazing at a map aloft.
It was the station guide

The train was running on its tracks
Running with all its speed
The carriage held but these two men
Great intellects indeed,
Deliberating mysteries
On which they disagreed.

Alongside Mr Gregory
Was seated Mr Syme
The former quite anarchic;
The latter, quite sublime,
For whom the whole discussion
Seemed but a waste of time.

The time has come the poet said
To speak of many things
Of God and Truth and Transcendence
And Saratoga Springs
And whether miracles exist
And archangelic wings

“O poet” said the Platonist
“Please look at what you’ve done!
You’ve ridiculed my arguments,
Where have my dogmas gone?”
“No need for such concern,” he said
“I’ve swallowed every one!”

I got in a stew
About you.
And not knowing what I should do,
My only way to treat the issues
Involved an entire box of tissues,
When I got in a stew
About you.

I got in a mess
I confess
When you revealed signs of distress.
Though a very small bit o’ me
Considered at least the epitome
Of how we two might coalesce
I confess.

I quite lost my head
When you said
You would never share my nuptial bed,
Though a very small part of my mind
Believed you were just being kind
Despite saying we’d never wed
As you said.

I got in a stew
About  you.
But I had to accept your adieu,
Though the shaking apart of me
Was breaking the heart of me,
And I got in a terrible stew
About you.

And I bellowed, and yelled, and I moaned
And I hollered, and cried, and I groaned
And intoned that it’s time I withdrew
From your view

I love the English springtime:
the lambs that gambol
in the sprouting grass,
and budding flowers
that spread their scent.
But oh . . . !

I hate the sneezes
and the running nose
and streaming eyes
of allergies
in English springtime.

I love our English summer
that warms but rarely
overheats my thirsting
body.  And I love
its cooling breezes.  
But oh . . . !

I hate those wasps
that buzz around
my honey-covered toast
at breakfast-time outdoors
in English summers.

I love the English autumn.
The russets and the golds
that tease my eye;
the orchards and their
apple scent.
But oh . . . !

I hate that mud
that ***** my walking boots
from off my feet
on country rambles
in English autumns.

And then the English winter
that never can decide
which of the seasons
it most likes to emulate.
But oh . . . !
Thank god there are no wasps!

If I may be allowed to be rhetorical
In matters spiritual or metaphorical,
I have a little parable to tell.

And if permitted to wax somewhat lyrical
I’d count it no less than a flaming miracle
If my words chanced to cast a magic spell.

You make the sunshine
When clouds fill the sky;
You make the flowers bloom
Where deserts are dry;
You expand my mind
With thoughts dear and clear;
And fill up my heart
Whenever you’re near.

And now if I may choose to be empirical
And build a dream that’s simply atmospherical,
To emphasise the points you’ve overheard.

They’re really not the least bit evangelical
Or even meant to drive someone hysterical,
As long as you’re both shaken up and stirred.

You light up my face
Whenever you smile;
To see it I’d walk
Full many a mile.
I’d go anywhere
For beauty so fair;
Honesty so true,
Fidelity rare.

So, summing up a treatise categorical,
And drawing to a close this tale historical
I’ll add one chorus to this final word.

In case for you it has been too intense, I call
Attention to much other verse nonsensical
And lyrics that are equally absurd.

My verses avoid
June rhyming with moon;
Search much as you will
You’ll not find a “spoon”.
And hard as you try
You simply won’t swoon
Over a songster
Whose style is to croon.

My task completed has not been incandescent
But is rather now revealed as evanescent.
And certainly it was not made of chrome.

So set aside these verses allegorical;
I hope you didn’t seek the Delphic oracle;
It’s time to pack up and to just go home.

Frost said
Home is the place where
When you go there
They have to take you in.
But what if there’s no place to go home to?
What if there’s nowhere that provokes
A sense of sight, or sound, or smell
Or taste or feeling
That evokes a memory?

You are cut adrift,
A piece of flotsam
Going where the current takes you.

The tide runs out,
The current ebbs and flows
Yet never ceases.
And you . . .
A piece of driftwood,
Lacking even the semblance of design
That might inspire a sculptural creation,
End in a vortex.

Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.

Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.

I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.

It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.

But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.

Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).

To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.

Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.

That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.

I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.

I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.

And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.

#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in *Adam Bede

It’s a pity, they said glumly,
that because of your neglect
we are obligated to remove it;
and although it’s been quite comely
and you may wish to reflect,
there is absolutely no way to improve it.

They gazed into my eyes and said
“Once it’s gone it will look bad
but there’s no way it can be corrected.
When something dies it must stay dead.
Best to remember what you had
than hope some day it might be resurrected.”

But though I took their words to heart,
I swore I’d not forget it,
although it left me in some disarray.
There are some things from which we cannot part
painlessly.  And I regret it;
and still deplore the day they took my Porsche  away.

Tears come from the heart
and my heart is as cold as ice.
So don’t ask me to cry,
for if I cry
it will not be for you as you are
but for you as you were;
when life was serene
and joy was unsullied,
and hearts were undemanding . . .
and tears will never bring that back.

It was
a nonsense time.
A time when
hope and opportunity
failed to mesh;
a time when
chance and comfort
came afresh.
And took what little pleasure
piqued my life
and turned it round,
at such a time
when summer had no end
and winter came with snow
and was a friend.

Where is it now?
Now with my hopes
and aspirations
turned to dust?
What sense is there now that
the buds have sprung
their open traps;
that trees have now released
their rich green sap;
thus striving to revive
that withered frame
with fruit and wild flowers
and perpetual peace.

Clarence Darrow said
I don’t believe in god because
I don’t believe in Mother Goose.
Personally
I do believe in Mother Goose because
I’ve seen her on my dinner plate.
But I don’t believe in god.
So . . .
Go figure.