"xanthippe" poems
You useless man, Socrates -
I think you need a shower…
I don’t know what the Athenians
find in you but as far as I can see you’re just wasting time
hanging out in the market places
and at dinners and symposiums
where all you do is stay late drinking nights
and talk about philosophy, and ideas
and of origin of things and justice
and nature of human beings
and such useless, impractical things;
and you bring not a cent home
and I can’t count on you for regular support
as all women and good wives might expect of a husband;
and you can’t even hold a good argument with me
for all you do when I use my Xanthippe’s questioning method
against your so-called Socratic method
all you do is mumble and tumble
and use words like shrew and nag
when all I’m asking of you is for you
to keep your part of the implied bargain in marriage
to put some food on the table
and bring some silver coins for the future of our three children:
Lamprocles, Sophroniscus and Menexenus -
have you forgotten them? Do you even remember their names?
And so you bring no money
but instead all you give me are empty words
and lofty words and airy words
and words coined in your head
and you put silly ideas that’s just confusing our children
and if not for me taking the children under my wings
they’ll just turn out to be mere
talkers and market-place prattlers
and hangers-on and leeches at other men’s feasts.
They may have a place in misguided history
if they follow your way
but they will bring weak bodies to their wives
when it is their time.
I don’t want them to be talkers,
and idealists and philosophers, Socrates –
I want them to be responsible
and I want them to bring meat and coins home
regularly and steadily, Socrates.
Socrates, you old man, I don’t care what they say of you
in the Greek world –
I haven’t had proof of your worth and value
here at home, especially in the kitchen.
You useless man, I think you need a shower;
maybe this water from the chamber-pot will wake you up.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 1:27 AM UTC
abridge the air above the aria
because basically I'm bent on balancing books
center to the capacity of culpability
derived from the demonic disappointments
entering my ethnicity.
Forget the foul fate
of so greatly glazed
a high horse
inside an icy inescapable
jail, where juveniles jinx
Kublai Khan, knocking the kimono
lying lazily upon the lamp.
Mortifying my middle man
never negating the negotiations
of an open opinion
perhaps a pernicious
quagmire, quietly and quickly,
ravenously rages,
sickly. Stop spewing
this title to tempt
under the universe
very volatile in
waiting. Wonder why
Xanthippe from Xian is
yearning for your
zenith and zeros in
on your words.
Pondering,
wondering,
if this is all for nothing.
coming up asundering.
their voices thundering.
and I am
silent.
now.
alone.
staring into a world undone,
wondering where the sun
could be.
And seeing,
it's right behind of me
And I wonder how I got
where I ought to be.
my food for thought is free.
it's the words inside of me.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
alas,
my dearest
Xanthippe,
I do so pine
for thee—
arrestless
tender touch
what's left
mine eyes
b'labored,
beauty!
gen'rous hums
the crest
aroun'neath
ambrous
skye's
seduction,
'pon thy leather,
set me down,
coerced aback
by thine
induction..
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
A, Anorexia.
B, Body Image
C, Cutting.
D, Death.
E, Emblaze.
F, Forgiveness.
G, Gene.
H, Helpless.
I, Insane.
J, Jocund.
K, Kindness.
L, Lost.
M, Memories.
N, Numb.
O, Oxygen.
P, Patience.
Q, Quiet.
R, Rejected.
S, Suicide.
T, Tired.
U, Undo.
V, Vivid.
W, Worthless.
X, Xanthippe.
Y, Yellow.
Z, Zombie.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
It rumbles and roars
The rage I harbor in my bones
Unsung song of contention
Bitter and bilious in my mouth
Because when I tried to speak,
nobody was listening
Boundries of consent are drawn at home
And maintained before being extended
To a world where Xanthippe is a slur
Between giving up a career and giving in to a creep
There isn't much of an option
Shame is the best weapon after fear
In the arsenal of patriarchy
Ammo of choice for its sari draped agents
To keep young women in line lest they
Sprout a tongue or mind of their own
Decades of silence has fed the fire of rage
Licking and moulding my contours
Till I turn into Jael yielding pen
Refusing to be a collateral any longer, ready
To nail Sisera, with or without a Barak to celebrate
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC