Post 100






He had an idea.
Out of the idea
he made a poem.

He had other ideas,
but these ideas
did not want to be poems.

Leave us alone, they said.
We are happy here,
in our own sphere.

And so he did.


Later, new hopes and fears
accompanied more ideas.
He tried to contact the spheres.

They slumbered, content, in their dorms.
His desires would break all their norms.
He accepted their love, their kisses.
Mr. Plato sent his best wishes.


I spend half my life
hoping, praying,
for something to say
that’s worth the saying.

I thought I would celebrate the occasion of my 100’th post on this blog by relaxing a bit and publishing a couple of items that could be described as relatively “unconsidered trifles”, or “chips off the workman’s block”.  “Poet’s Angst” speaks for itself, I think.  “Unfulfilled” is a bit of whimsy, but the reference to Plato in the last line is an allusion to the great philosopher’s Theory of Forms – the idea that the world we perceive is an illusory imitation of the “real” world of transcendent ideals.  Plato would not have been a fan of this blog; for him, poetry was part of the deceptive world of unstable perception, and the world of the forms was accessible only to the pure intellect.


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