Posts Tagged With: philosophy

why does the thinker from Hamangia sit in the window of a travel agency


now it was the time to sit propped on my elbows
upon my share of sky waiting for the end of the world
(everyone knows what this means) I and all the children of my age
with their parents
and axis mundi
and the hatchet chopping always something else
more or less barren

I still have my geographical atlas from gymnasium
back then we played the game of statues and we tickled stones
and the laughter
was gargling close to our ears
like the water of the sweet spring source
from which I was piously exhorted to drink
innocence/ silence/ eternal youth

it is more common to see people coming back from their death
than the man with his tight lips kissing
the wall of wails and gufaws
kissing the heart of the cross
that sometimes looks like a man propped in one leg
stuck into the ground with his life in other men’s scripts
with his large arms still bearing fruit

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Categories: My Poems in 2015 | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Socrates and the number 30


Reading Plato’s Phaedo in the light of the Apology, I was struck by the relationship between perceived fate and perceived wisdom. One of the things that captured my thoughts was the symbolism of the number 30. Was that fate, only fate, or was that a more accurate knowledge, the attribute of the sophos? It is related to oracles and dreams and daimones of course and maybe goes beyond these simple facts.

When the oligarchy of the Thirty was in power Socrates almost died, because he opposed unrighteousness and followed the higher moral code of behavior;
In 399 B.C. Socrates is found guilty by a vote of 280 to 220/or 221 (? according to different sources) and he is impressed by the fact that he needed “thirty votes gone over to the other side” in order to have been acquitted;
In his proposal for his own sentence he asks to be fined thirty coins, with his friends being the sureties;
In Xenophon’s Apology (Mem., IV, 8, 2, cf. Phaidon edited in 1994 in my country) the ship sent for the annual pilgrimage (theōria) to Delos took thirty days to return. It was a gift to Apollo. The ship re-enacted Theseus’s mythical voyage.
Socrates obeys to a recurrent dream which always gave him the same advice and first he composes a hymn in honor of the god of the festival. (Apollo’s name does not appear in that fragment). My conclusion is that the number 30 is somehow related to the synodic month, by chance the length of the lunar cycle as seen from Earth. And this is also a kind of theōria/ initiatic travel. Am I right?

Right now, continuing my study, I found that the Theseus’ ship had thirty oars (Plutarch, Thes, XXIII) a thing that was known to Athenians in Plato’s times. I think this is also an important example in this context. Nowadays Christians, whose religion is also based on ancient rituals in its beginnings, know well that Jesus was sold for thirty pieces of silver…

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Germination


Maybe one day
I should have been born apart,
at a far distance from the place
where the embers’ shadow wriggles
on the ancient brick wall.

The circle of sun,
a spinning run’s print in the sand of memory,
tightened inside my body
like snow melting in March.
Maybe it was farther than dreams,
somewhere between the autumn seeds
sleeping like buried forests
with their crests tired of a high flight
bluer than the first silence…

And my shadow returned home
before sunset.

Categories: My Poems in 2009 | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Magnetic North


stemming from their roots
senses are tangential to reality
the surface tension force
draws towards the center
the Earth like a strange dew drop
clogging up the living blood

at night I’m dreaming abyssal creatures
each day I’m forgetting the condor’s flight
alive and dead ones gather together
the full ships are slicing time plates
on the geographical line
between yesterday and tomorrow

tears are dissolving
where the ocean is deeper
hurricanes and earthquakes are digging
a road of indifference
on the cranium bones

from my middle universe
umbilical threads spread in every direction
along with the wind
I have learned to go straight
moistening my forefinger

I can’t see trees anymore
within the thick forest where I breathe
my heartbeat is hunting
a wounded old deer
at sunrise or sunset

the world will be one day
too round
.

Categories: My Poems in 2011 | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

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