The Ubiquitous Dialectic (high school poem)

A poem I wrote for high school, probably spring 1984
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Oh why does man in isolation stay,
And many people find themselves alone?
When thousands in the street are crying loud,
And loneliness is there, when millions in
The world are dying so, but loneliness
Is there? What foolishness is this that men
Ignore their fellow man, that when they meet
They act as if the other is not there.
Decrepit men debase themselves, and in
Their loneliness continue on their way!

Oh why do I in isolation stay,
And I myself am found alone again,
When thousands in the streets are crying loud,
And loneliness is here, when millions in
The world are dying so, but loneliness
Is here? What right have I in loneliness
To live and separate myself from that
Which is within my grasp, the will to reach
Its height the only need. Decrepit I
Debase myself, continue on this road!

Yet lonely is this soul, who though it try
To enter in the fellowship of life,
Expires itself because it tries to hard.
What is the ill, that causes a retreat
From life? Is it a lack of courage, shy,
Or is it life's bombardments made us so?
Some yet are lonely with no knowledge of
This love to find its gentle touch, and some
Are lonely for the pride that they sustain.

E'en though a man bestride the world he may
Not be Colossus strong, for he who stands
Between two worlds no grasp in either has.
Two masters doth he try to keep, yet he
Cannot do so. When man mistaken sets
Himself above all else, he puts himself
Beyond the need of love from anyone.
True satisfaction in this life is not
On basis in exception from the rule,
But loneliness departs when man the rule
In general keeps, and love's true need upholds.

Now when a soul in loneliness is found,
The world he sees through different eyes, which know
The things of life before unseen. The trees
That he had never known, the sky so blue
Which never had stood out in boldness there.
Inside he looks, within, to find the cause;
So he can from this loneliness be purged,
So that which separates from unity
Of life be gone, and with withdrawal comes
The thrust which conscientious search will bring!

And all the love that man has seen from naught
Cannot be come, and its true Source is like
A magnet strong whose forces form closed loops.
True magnetism draws us toward the Source.
When it is sent to men, some don't respond;
But when a man responds, the loop has closed.
A magnet artificial doth he be!
You then become a source of love to man,
And send out lines which others send you back.
But when the lines aren't sent or aren't by men
Received, a man becomes a lonely soul.

When life's immortal time continues on,
Withdrawal from the world will once more come,
But if sincere a thrust will also forth,
And with each thrusting forth, a moment of
Reality from introspection reigns,
And understanding calms the raging seas
Of loneliness, a dialectic surge.

The Tides of Culture (a poem)

The tides of culture have changed. 
They have changed almost imperceptibly; 
It has seemed to happen overnight. 
The ground we stand on is different, 
But we did not realize it because we did not move. 
We were the leaders, we thought,
And then we weren't.

An Ode to a Coffee

Fair fair, your lovely warming face
With twirling wisps up into space
Aboon the stars ye take your place,
I long to drink.

The groaning teacher there ye fill
Your caffeine like an instant thrill,
While thro' the pores your dews distill
In time of need.

And then, O what a glorious sight,
Awake perchance for all the night,
While sleepiness itself takes flight,
Warm-reeking, rich!

Ye pow'rs what make mankind your care,
Oh dish them out their bill o'fare,
Answer please our grateful prayer,
Give us some coffee!

A Schenckian Faust

I have alas, philosophy,
history, math, and physics too,
and dare I say, theology,
with ardent labor, studied through.

And here I stand, with all my lore,
Poor fool, no richer than before.
Magister, sometimes Dean, indeed,
Sixteen, seventeen, years I lead.

Up, down, here, there I snag,
My students by the nose to drag,
Yet in the end the truth will show
That I in truth do nothing know.

At times the scholars, smart though they be
Mistake obscure for profundity.
Magister, doctor, priest, and scribe;
Are often just a dullard tribe.

Yet ignorance is only bliss
As long as stupidity should miss
The right to make any choice
Of any importance or voice.

Then have I neither place in one
And have I naught the other too
To think that most minutia want
Or see the universe beyond.

In such fashion, a dog I live
And take as Juvenal before.
Give them bread and circuses.
Bread and circuses.

The Middle Man

Or woman, say I,
The one between but not,
Better to say a little of both,
Some of each she's got.

Sometimes just right, a balanced feat,
He's not too hot or cold.
Or else a transitory place
Becomes unhappy, old.

The poles, the dialectic spot
Comes only for a moment.
It's only right, it only fits
A time, a place, to foment.

The Philosoph, the absolute
Might find the perfect balance.
God himself, he knows them all
Among an inf'nite parlance.

Unhappy is the face between
Two fists that are at war.
Her fate to lose, his destiny
A casualty of war.

The Island (a poem)

It was an island, entire and of itself,
Adrift from the continent, away from the main.
Its clod was washed away by the sea,
And Europe was the less.
But the promontory stood, the people continued on their way.
The bell did not toll,
Though its soil was richly planted.
To be diminished is in the eye of the beholder.

"To the Virgins" (Robert Herrick)

This just in.  It just dawned on me that Robert Herrick's early 1600s poem, "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time," was surely an allusion to the Parable of the Ten Virgins in Matthew 25.  In the parable, as you recall, ten virgins are waiting on their hubby to come get married.  But when he comes, only five of them have kept their supply of oil ready.  It's a parable about being ready when the bridegroom (Christ) returns.

How foolish of me not to see the connection!  Here is the poem:

To the Virgins to Make Much of Time
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

A Poem

The boys and girls went out to play.
They took a snake and turned to say,
"A stick, a rope, a pole, a hose."
They swung it round and touched their toes.

When someone said, "I'd put it down,"
They hiked their nose all over town.
Still more, they looked at her askance,
And oft began at her to glance.

Say who are you to tell us what
And where and when and how and but?
We like to play, and play we will,
And of it we will have our fill.

But you had better out of here
Your lies, your trash, your evil fear.
In fact, it's not enough to go.
You're poison and upon you woe.

They grabbed her, raised her, took her out,
Dumped her down, began to shout.
They threw their stones, and she was done.
And they returned to have some fun.

Death, Be not Proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

by John Donne

Particulars

Events, what's the meaning,
Meaning, what's the significance,
Denotation, what's the connotation,
Facts, what's the value?
Body, what's the spirit,
Existence, what's the essence?
Things fall apart,
Vanity of Vanities.
Insanity.
Mystery of mysteries,
Things come together.
Creation out of nothing,
Dust and breath, a living soul,
Being there in complexity,
Infinite horizons meeting,
By whom, with whom, in the unity of the Spirit,
One God.
Universals.

A Poem--The Age of the Scholar

I have not written poetry for years. But wrote this one this morning.
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The Age of the Scholar
The Age of the Scholar nears its end,
Though it ended long ago
And continues unabated.

Of leisure it is born,
Though necessity it drives
And reality it creates.

Our wealth is near an end,
Though rarely was she rich
And he not so concerned.

The stars are still as bright,
Though not as often seen
And just as visible.

The Age of the Scholar nears its end,
For life has its demands
And the nobler truths rarely sought.