Best Philosophic Poems
This emptiness within surrounds the insides
Penetrating my sorrows, I see the light
A light so faded and sad…as if it knows my lamentation
This light dies to be seen, yet it is surrounded by shadows
The light has not a voice, nor eyes to cry
Yet it weeps in the strangest of times
If only that light could travel up and onto my tongue
Springing forth in articulate passion and delight
To all that happen to behold its philosophic brilliance
But it cannot speak to you
It cannot cry to you…
It cannot tell you that I am…
So deeply in love with everything you are
Your talents, your pursuits…I cherish
I hold your dreams in my heart
Not merely wishing for them all to come true
But willing to sacrifice all for your fulfillment
It melts at every smile
Every squeak of laughter
Each hesitant touch
I wish it could be…
How strange this light has made me!
So dim inside, yet shaking with infuriated quaking
It longs to take over my every being
And make sweet music with you
Trilling in its soft embraces
To fulfill you is to leave me writhing in containment
Yet your happiness weaves into the pain
And the light remains…yet it never rains
This light thrives to love you…shivering but alive
It sighs in silence, comforted by fruitless words
The light is afraid and cold
For the vessel it resides in centers all warmth on you
I am consumed by the beauty of your words
Stolen by the smiles of your lingering languages
And imprisoned by reality, as I walked through your world
The world that you built on your poetry pages .
Tell me, have you only spent your green years
To harvest wisdom in the field of saintly sages?
And now using your wealth of words to erase fears
Leaving joy and rainbow dancing over posterity’s pages.
Oh Farah! the far better Arabian wonder,
The beauty of brawns that resides in the mean marrows:
You drive many hearts to curiosity’s border
Now I see the strength that resides in the simple shadows.
Thy poetic passion paints the worms with wonders
Thy philosophic pictures push the fragile to become agile
Thy poetic pen pulls giants out of the palace of grasshoppers
Oh little Arabian wonder ! thy poems make mountains mobile.
Somewhere in the pretty petty imaginary illusion of delusion
There lies a truth an edifice of search between obtuse confusion
Windows like brick walls and concrete blocks birthing the light
Nails to be nailed screws to be screwed with monumental sight
A life a building fortress sand castle beach hut nutter’s dream
Maybe a prison with towers barbed wire fences mindful scream
Some multi storied paradise no choke on apple’s stem or core
No passion fruit in torture chambers shackles behind and to the fore
No hidden attic and no cellar no stellar fantasy no quick descent
For now simply one dimension deserted plain hopes to ferment
Scraping no skies a cave hovel card board box a bombed out grave
Nothing to hold onto no graces left spent and ravished naught to save
Is it magic thought provoked delusion of illusion alluded distortion
Who knows does it matter I suppose it does in incomplete reapportion
Some are born in a manger on the fields of labour some with a silver spoon
Surely some would rather have foundations a ceiling not some lonely moon
Get me not wrong as singing the praises of romantic poverty and dearth
Icy cold and freezing bones do not bear up to sound safe privilege in birth
Yet from the scraping nib and luxury of pen in hand and philosophic mind
Not wishing to lack compassion nor cementing over cracks so misaligned
We are the builders of our lives to some extent despite the vagaries so vast
Can we find a staircase upwards some sliding pole to reach out for the past
In such compassion regardless of painful structures and abandoned need
Is some notion some motion of change and nourishment star dust to feed
In God we trust nihilism architecture Karma fate Nirvana hard core grind?
No valid answers but questions loving search for quiet mindfulness in kind
I thought poetry is
-name of Mesopotamia which was the first civilization to emerge in human history
-ancient cave peoples surviving life struggle
I thought poetry is
-an immortal love story of Yousuf- Zulekha, Shirin-Farhad, Laila-Majnu or Romeo-Juliet
-a telephonic or open love conversation of smiling postmodern girls
-drying wet colorful clothes of beloved in the courtyard of the house
-haring of beloved with tuberose garland before a mirror
I thought poetry is
-lizards chirping from the deserted house; cockroach flying
-quarrelsome cats in the black dark or barking dogs
-the struggle of mosquito for human blood
-traveling of the arrogant indecent animals all over the night
I thought poetry is
-thrilling venturous ghostly stories of J. K. Rowling
-self-expression of known-unknown writers
-unspoken tale of a war-wounded soldier
-the regret of the thousands of dead soldiers
-the unwritten fantasy of an isolated poet
-the lonely guitar or ektara of dead singers
I thought poetry is
-without reel tie an independent flying of a kite in the sky
-in the blue sky sovereign flapping of birds
-movement of invisible winds everywhere
-hearing story of fairytale crossing of green forest
I thought poetry is
-handmade airing of newly married girl to a new groom in lunch time
-dyed hands of nubile girls by mehndi,
-captivating sounds of jingling anklet and kamarband of dancing damsels
I thought poetry is
-classic music of Pandit Ravi Shankar
-immortal tune of Ustad Bismillah Khan's shehnai
-compilation of humanitarian lyrics of the legend Bob Marley
-heart touching reciting of the Holy Quran of Qari Abdul Basit
I thought poetry is
-unforgettable philosophical discussion of Socrates with his disciples
-the philosophic lineage of learning such as Socrates-Plato-Aristotle
-immortal scientific creations of Newton, Galileo, Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Hawking
I thought poetry is
-unremitting prayer or worship of any prevailed religion devotee to get heaven
-inhuman history of bombing on the Hiroshima and Nagasaki or brutality of 1st or 2nd World War
These all are just my thinking,
my thinking is free
on my path
but poetry is poetry,
more than any thinking, many more;
on its path
Poetry is independent fully
-June 27, 2019 Chattogram
Glimpses of you…
An image so mesmerizing, I bask in shame to rely on these bedazzled eyes
So full of wisdom and heart, your globes keep me glazed
Grazed on the swift-shotted bullet of your gaze
Do not let him see how he drives me mad
Get your head out of space, decapitate this case
This spell of ever-turning lust crumbles me to dust
For this love both devastates and fulfills me
Makes a monster out of me—strong-wills me!
I ache—god, how I ache
As I reach for a touch of your glorious existence
Darting through the crackled splinters of resistance
It is a throbbing pain pulsing in my brain
Wetting the corners of philosophic peaks
To discover your roots are for another
I drive down underneath
Take a shot of your toughest glass
And turn your head away from the lure
Push it aside that his intentions are pure
Find a path towards the sycamore
Focus on the tree’s gallant twists
In life never succumbing to the neurotic mists
She grows toward the sun like she needs no one!
Worrying not of the bullets—for she is the gun
Stand tall amongst the majority’s dream of original
Your heights will keep you satisfied
For in lust we only die
The sun’s strong rays provide the hope for better days
Yet still at times the branches twist and rest upon his gaze
"Turn on the television",
Says an angel munching popcorn,
At the end of each century
"What are the humans up to?"
15th Century:
Columbus exploring lands on unending voyages
Enchanting symphonies of musicians
Words printed publicly
On yet another note,
Empires waging wars for supremacy
16th Century:
Shakespeare sprinkles an era of Literature
Novel religions blend together
World marvels at inventions
Oh! Their foolish twist,
Struggling against man made plagues
17th Century:
Pascal, Boyle, Newton bask in glorious Science
Folks marvel at exquisite cuisines
Discover how universe expands
But humans need a change,
How about propagating slavery
18th Century:
Darwin and Berkeley penetrate philosophic minds
Austen explores societal strata
Mozart floats among harps
Well enough, humans think
Let's plot royal conspiracies
19th Century:
Civilizations soar with industrial revolution
Pasteur creates life-saving vaccines
Giant machines uplift cities
Isn't that much for now
Time to expand slave colonies
20th Century:
Theories leave immortal traces in all fields
Carbon dating, electromagnetic rays,
Nuclear reactions building spaceships
Humans have a different need
Devastating nuclear bomb thrills
Bored, angels switch to channel Earth
Only two decades past 21st century,
Interstellar voyages, flying planes,
A primitive human wouldn't believe,
But oh they can never change,
Bubbling venom of cold wars,
Dead humanity, tortured nature,
Cheap thrills of pointless debates.
"Okay that's been a while I say,
It is time to give them a taste.
At regular intervals in this century,
Humans with their wolfish greed
Surpassing idiocy need a pause."
Combating over money, religions,
Nature, opinions, nothing else
While humans oppose each other
Forgetting to ponder their doings
Angels and demons dance together
Letting nature throw up for a while
God laughs as he tunes for showtime,
"And now for something completely different..."
May 20, 2020
highway grinding
myway finding
mental meanderings
philosophic ideals
mirrorly miles
of reflection
passed under tired tires
Robert’s crafted a fine form
of poetry we will sup
drink from philosophic cup
his creativity’s now reborn.
Form "Lind30"
Today is Sunday and I'm going to the ocean
or maybe not. Definitely not doing the laundry
or maybe I will. Moss and even a small tree
grow in the rotten stubs of the pier pilings.
The city is Seattle and it has a macho airport.
Give me the comfort of a moose knowing its
water supply. The mosquito's acceptance of its position
among a million mosquitoes. The pool of stagnant
water that remains one with the mothering ocean.
I drift on the air, less than a seed, a bacteria.
Or I am human, big dick, big brain containing
universal philosophic affidavit. Pleased by
the churning of my tongue, sexual enlightenment,
devout prayer, gourmet dining. I swear
it is best to be alive and to have loved Mary.
ON THE ROCKS
Talk about bad luck, I hit rock bottom and broke a leg
One advantage to hitting rock bottom is at least I know which way is up now
I hit Rock’s bottom and he promptly kicked my bottom from one end to the other
It usually bottoms out when I hit rock bottom
WAXING PHILOSOPHIC (YEAH YOU MOPPED, BUT DID YOU WAX?... I THOUGHT NOT!)
A tree fell in the forest and a hearing impaired gentleman was nearby so it did NOT make a sound
You think, therefore you are and just who do think you are, anyway?
What does not kill me only makes me weak in the stomach when I am presented with the hospital bill
People who live in bakeries should not throw scones
DONCHA’ JUST LOVE IT?
Love is blind and keeps bumping into things
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways! Um…
I loved her to death but got off on a technicality
Star-crossed lovers occasionally get crossed up and can get rather cross about it too
I SAW ONE THE OTHER DAY I SWEAR TO GOD I DID
I made a Snowman that frankly speaking, looked Abominable
The Abominable Snowman retired to Florida and melted on the spot
Bigfoot treated The Abominable Snowman and family to dinner and footed the entire bill (however, things got pretty hairy when his credit card was refused)
Bigfoot often puts his foot in his mouth and he’s got a big mouth too
YOU’RE A REAL PAIN IN THE ASS AND STOP ACTING LIKE A HORSE’S ASS, SMART-ASS AND MY ASS CAN WHIP YOUR ASS ANY DAY OF THE WEEK TOO
A mule got a species change operation and made a real ass of himself
So WHAT if I’ve got it all backwards? (You whole-ass- b_tch-of- a-son!)
Secretariat lost his ass in a High-Stakes poker game
A horse was unjustly discriminated against because it was a horse of a different color
Stevie was a city boy,
He wore an old school tie,
His life was full of sex and booze
And other things you buy.
He occupied a penthouse
That overlooked the Thames
And plastered it with modern art
To overawe his friends.
But one night in a taxi home
When chatting to the cabby
The latter asked our hero
Whether he was really happy.
Now Stevie wasn't prone to
Letting others take the piss,
So he smashed the cabby's lights
And drove his car into a ditch.
But the violence didn't kill
The mem'ry of the thing he'd said;
"Are you really happy?" was
Still buzzing round his head.
So he popped along to Harley Street
With his philosophic woe,
Slipped a doctor fifty quid
And screamed 'I need to know!'
The doctor nodded kindly and
Reached under the desk,
From where he raised a felling axe
And chopped off Stevie's legs.
While tarring up the stumps the
Doctor said 'You might feel crappy,
But you'll have a clearer mind when
Someone asks you if you're happy.'
I never think my thoughts deep thoughts --
although I'm no Peter Sellers, they are
but common trite reactions. l do not live
an examined philosophic life; nor have I
focused, full-fathomed understanding.
But -- there is, everywhere, wide-eyed blank confusion --
crowds who do not listen, do not hear, cannot ken,
and can not even choose NOT to grasp
what is said or shown, read or written.
While reveling in company that towers
oh! so high in intellectual singularity --
such myriad dazzling talents! -- alas! I
still am only another erstwhile
clumsy Chauncey Gardiner.
Where (perhaps in hiding?) are all
our popular current Feynmans -- Sagans --
Hawkings -- even Einsteins? Still, I will --
I must! -- ask: think YOU that ignorance
might NOT be bliss?
The dawning day is like an open door
for voyagers adrift in living stream
to waken from the dream asleep no more.
When out of slumber’s seas we’re cast ashore
and consciousness resumes its heady beam,
the dawning day is like an open door.
With dialectic feet upon the floor
the thinker frames a philosophic scheme
in lieu of wakening asleep no more.
Stargazers, poets, let their fancies soar
into the realms beyond what things may seem,
for dawning day is like an open door.
Though myriads divinities implore,
within our being lies the path supreme
to reach awakenment asleep no more.
Deep wisdom handed down from ages yore
can teach us of enlightenment’s true gleam.
The dawning day is like an open door
to waken from the dream asleep no more.
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
Inspiration was derived from the following writing by Nichiren Daishonin…
“The ordinary people, who inhabit the nine realms of dharmas, are wholeheartedly immersed in the sleep of the unenlightenment of not wanting to know. They are drowned in the dream of living and dying, as well as having forgotten what the wakefulness of the enlightenment of the original state is all about. They cling at all costs to what is going on in the dream. And they stray from one darkness to the next.”
~ Nichiren Daishonin (1279)
From ~ “A Collation of the Layers of the Various Teachings of all the Buddhas of the Past, Present and Future as to Which Specific Doctrines are to be Discarded or Established” (So Kan Mon Sho) ~ translated by Martin Bradley
[See site at dharmagateway.org]
This writing has also been translated as ~ “The Teachings Affirmed by All Buddhas Throughout Time” (Sokanmon Sho)
“Common mortals of the nine worlds are asleep in the mind’s innate delusion. Lost in a dream of the sufferings of birth and death, they forget the reality of original enlightenment. Attached to the rights and wrongs within their dream, they move from darkness into greater darkness.”
~ Nichiren Daishonin (1279)
The Groom of the Stool
(Two meditations on an ancient post: see below)
I.
The Groom of the Stool needs some time
To commit his experience to rhyme.
This commodious peer
Detests diarrhoea
But thinks constipation sublime
II.
See where the philosophic King
Sits Rodinesque upon his “throne”.
The patient Groom stands wondering
And draws conclusions of his own.
As often at such times as these,
He thinks of Plato, Locke and Kant
And their epistemologies —
And of his own ingenious slant:
“His Majesty – though no-one’s fool,
A veritable Marc Aurel –
Rises still wiser from his stool.
From which it’s possible to tell
That wisdom comes not only a priori,
But also, sometimes, a posteriori.”
Note: These two tasteless pieces were prompted by a colleague’s discovery of the post of “Groom of the Stool”.
This was a highly-placed courtier in 16th Century England, whose prestigious task it was – I regret to say, gentle reader – to wipe the Royal Bottom, at least according to some sources:
* https://www.tudorsociety.com/groom-stool-sarah-bryson/;
* http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/king-toilet-attendant-england?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=atlas-page
We fell – as one would – to speculating about the philosophical and poetic potential of this post....
Twilight, with its soft light,
Its faint quiet shadows,
Falling on the hillsides,
The mountains, the meadows,
Brings to me such deep thoughts,
Such philosophic notions,
That I sometimes imagine
At daylight's cessation
What I would see
If I saw with God’s eye.
See all the atoms
And see all the stars,
See all the peasants
And see all the Tsars.
See all the peoples
Who live on the Earth.
See their life as remembered
From their moment of birth;
All the small memories
That make up their past:
Their teacher at her desk
In ninth-grade French class;
The sun on the leaves
That they saw as a child;
The wind in the trees;
That day a son smiled.
Memories no one but they
Can ever experience,
As we’re locked inside skulls
And mostly oblivious
To the vast inner lives
Of each one around us.
So as day draws to night
And the sunlight fades,
As I drift through my daydream
And wander through glades,
I imagine my life
Multiplied by the billions
If I could see even dimly
By a god’s holy vision,
And then by more billions
By all those who’ve died;
The immense web of memories
That surround us but reside
Always and forever
Just out of reach.