From the Soul of the Philosopher and Poet

What are you searching for?
For a reason, for a way to believe,
For a ruse to trick reason
And reach the realm of faith and certainty
While remaining under his good grace.

What are you willing to pay?
I am willing to sacrifice reason itself,
Only reason and my sense of honesty
Do not allow this weakness and betrayal to prevail,
So I remain caught in the middle,
Cut in half in no man’s land,
And as a result I feel myself
Poor, impoverished, and lacking a center,
As if empty or hollow,
Glancing back and unable to go back,
Looking high but unable to fly upwards,
So I pay my life and time as a result
And linger begging for a crumb of bread,
I whose inheritance and right
Is the banquet of heaven itself.


3 thoughts on “From the Soul of the Philosopher and Poet

  1. Your poem reminded me a little of Baudelaire’s “L’irréparable” :
    “Mais mon cœur, que jamais ne visite l’extase,
    Est un théâtre où l’on attend
    Toujours, toujours en vain, l’Être aux ailes de gaze !”
    “But on my heart’s dark stage an endless pause
    Is all, and I await
    In vain, in vain the Spirit with wings of gauze! ” (Jack Collings Squire)


    1. Yet my resolve and the horizon into which I push my being is more life-affirming than the outlook of Baudelaire. My “instinct,” I feel, is different. I refuse opium and addiction as permanent ways to coop though I am ready to admit their momentary value. In a sense, poetry, for Baudelaire, for myself, and for much of the modern poets I read was/is opium chewing (Though, of course, Baudelaire’s poetry is a lot more than that). So one struggles to keep himself addicted; while for another addiction is itself the struggle through which he want to break into something else, into someone else. I affirm the self that wants to transcends itself, and the one that for long shivers naked in the night of its own becoming without quite knowing or understanding just what it is it is pushing for. Back to Nietzsche’s aphorism from Human, All Too Human: the intellectual character must retain its integrity; but then, what will become of poetry? and of the metaphysical need? Ah, something only past ages could only dream of!


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