Long Plato Poems
Long Plato Poems. Below are the most popular long Plato by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plato poems by poem length and keyword.
Friendly sage from the starless height
Now dying without fright
In his human and earthly sight
The cosmos dimmed its light
Dying from old diphtheria
Still his will looked higher
He lost his voice to teach and greet
That poured wisdom so sweet
All he could do was meekly bleat
Uclers formed on his feet
Uclers broke through his gentle hands
And sweat poured from his glands
“I’ve been waiting to see
You at last before I am free
The Divine within me
I will give back with childlike glee
To the Good and Divine
To the highest, beautiful Vine”
“I have hope for you too
I will fly the path of the few
The path that Plato knew
I am glad you will see me through”
He said as he leaked puss
To his dear friend Eustochius
His friend was by his side
Glad in the fertile countryside
A snake slithered to hide
With logos as his inner guide
He took his final breath
Greeting his diligent friend, death
He left at sixty-six
No longer bound to fleshly tricks
Flew above stars and Styx
Flew high above the craftsman’s bricks
He ascended to the One
Thus, his own friendly will was done
Plato says that Heaven is perfect things,
that nothing pure or good exists on earth.
We leave the Ideal World when, at our birth,
like ants who've briefly flown, we shed our wings.
All infants cry, in Shakespeare's view, when first
they leave the womb, to find this Vale of Tears
is what they must inhabit four score years,
dreading the hardship into which they've burst.
Our human life, so Seneca would say,
is prone to failure, suffering and pain.
The only shreds of solace that remain
are stoic calm, acceptance of decay.
They're wrong, of course, to tend towards this view:
but then, my Perfect Girl, they didn't know you.
We sit together in the shadowed halls beyond time—
Plato, Socrates, Spinoza, Protagoras,
Aristotle, Pythagoras, Kant, Descartes, Aquinas—
our words once rivers,
now dust in the mouths of men.
I, Plato, speak first:
“I left you the Sun,
the realm beyond your cave of illusions—
but you turn your face from the light,
content with dancing shadows.”
Socrates leans forward,
his eyes burning with quiet fire:
“I said, I know that I know nothing,
but you still clothe ignorance in arrogance,
mistaking noise for wisdom.”
Spinoza raises his head to the heavens:
“I told you God and Nature breathe as one—
but you split them apart with the knife of pride,
searching for the divine in the clouds,
while trampling it underfoot.”
Protagoras’ voice cuts the air:
“Man is the measure of all things—
yet you measure yourself by gold,
by conquest,
by the trembling of those beneath you.”
Aristotle sighs:
“I gave you the golden mean,
the path between excess and deficiency—
but you still feast on extremes,
drunk on desire,
starved of virtue.”
Pythagoras strikes the table once:
“I showed you the harmony of number,
the music of the spheres—
but you play only the drumbeat of greed,
drowning the stars in smoke.”
Kant’s gaze is unblinking:
“I told you there are things
reason can never touch—
yet you batter mystery with logic,
as if infinity would bow to your syllogisms.”
Descartes whispers coldly:
“I think, therefore I am,”
but you think without being,
you are without knowing,
you live without awakening.
And then Aquinas, heavy with sorrow, speaks last:
“I showed you the marriage of faith and reason—
but you have divorced them,
making orphans of truth and grace alike.”
We sit in silence now,
watching your world from the edge of eternity—
a world that thinks itself wise,
yet gropes in darkness,
holding the candle
backwards.
WHEELCHAIR BOUND
Dots appeared and disappeared
a single sunray flashed onto
wheelspokes, canvas seat
comfortably frayed
bought secondhand
her unexercised legs flabby
window bars rusted, panes cracked
nobody cared
there she sat thinking about
cooking porridge with cinnamon
tricky to wheel in
two meter wide kitchen
lighting gas stove sitting no easy feat
this was charnel ground
no cash oozing pockets or
colour disappearing into op-art
no bra-strap laughter
or fruit bowl decorations
no one visited
thought wheelchair bound infectious
what if they too had to
sit for a narrow cold shower
or pop-a-wheely to see
a bird swallow a caterpillar ?
here trees were being chopped
their screaming pain slicing her nerves
cockroaches, ego-deaths
not knowing about this phase
of unpalatable life
she wheeled to a sunny patch
her relegated cement square
stared at Sun questioningly
He smiled at her pain
saying it was not in vain
she grimaced, then smiled in return
remembering cinema days
mall ice-cream, walks on beaches
vague memories round and round
with wheel tires, like neglected hamsters
nobody wanted to hoist wheelchair into air
then car booth, all too much trouble
had too much to do
shattered human perceptions falling
to be buried
chair had tatty armrests for lifting body
she could not buttocks rise up
to call street boy for corner shop loaf
hunger had to wait
till neighbour knocked
Buddha said all bodies merge
with charnel ground
sooner or later heads, arms, ears
are broken down
images across a sieve screen
Plato saw this too as shadows
still they feared coming near
locked into an eye flap timeline which said
what if I too ?
when wheels become legs
and humans less, sight clears
what was once flotsam and jetsam
floats away into goodbye bays
enjoyment of senses merely a persistent
layer of life
wheelchair bound is part of Plan
so sound, a mechanism for peeling
two wheels become friends
grinding ignorance, flattens what serves not
unfolding a Mode of Goodness
every spoked circle has a
tacit teaching agenda
No experience in virtue vain
Straight lines can not be drawn
Forget about circles and their kind
Squares, triangles, are too far from reach
Only Plato can do such designs I think
In the world of the Forms in the beyond
God too can do this when so inclined
When predisposed to perform such miracles
Nestled softly in the void He toys with nature
Pen and paper take color to another level
God gave us Art for pleasures full perfection
That magic to be imagined with pure light
With dark with love inspired
Struck like a match in heavens imagination
Rolled over once or twice for good measure
Erased in time sometimes
Repeated until we get it right
no hocus pocus
reality feels bogus
dreams zap our focus
abstract besets real locus
if for love then who woke us
chosen now woken
open sesame spoken
deepest thought broken
wilderness needs a token
perhaps heaven’s unbroken
cosmic hey presto
one very hot potato
slipped past dear plato
consciousness found ratio
fulcrums master, builds nato
/ \
/ \
/ \
By David Kavanagh
Howmanysyllables 5/7/5/7/7 x 3
03/07/2022
What would God pay for my soul
What if i told him no
the acme cartoon jaw
hits the floor
If time travel is possible
why the hell go back
Even Confucius swore
Plato banged his big toe
time when Einstein didn't know
Choosing between either or or
Ripping the mirror apart
same image
on every part
The universe smiled at me today
and i could only see the creases
Spent my best times with the breeze
seconds see night and day
For in the moments used
is where i laze
This dogs day afternoon
spent waiting for the moon
Suns reflection stored within the corner of my eye
Just like smoke mixed with evergreen mist
Sea froth bubbles to extinction
Pick my words for me
but be gentle
the stones have bruised
my mind
but unblemished
me at the core
as you leave
would you mind
closing the door
Oh, Parthenon,*
Sublime aesthetic structure,
Embodiment of unparalleled elegance,
Incarnation of history, philosophy, and sciences,
Everlasting beacon of human civilization,
Glorification of architecture,
Pride of the Western world
You, the deathless temple of Athena,
Undeniably, it reflects the harmonious blending:
Of matter with the form,
Of man with God,
Of the temporal with the eternal.
In you, one may easily discern:
The drama of Sophocles,
The wisdom of Socrates,
The reason of Plato, and
The logic of Aristotle incorporated
Into
The ageless white marble, that the
Everlasting mountain of Pendelikon so
Generously has offered
And
The skilled hands of Phidias and Ictinus,
So expertly have shaped, into a
Never-ending hymn of worldly beauty,
Ascending to the heavens of perfection
As a thanksgiving to the wisdom of the divine and as
A never-dying monument to human creativity and
Understanding
Oh, Parthenon, before your perpetual magnificence,
Humbly I bow!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
13 JANUARY 2013
*One of the crowning monuments of the world and, unquestionably,
one of the finest is the Parthenon, the ancient temple of Athena, daughter of
Zeus, Goddess of wisdom.
Built between 447 and 438 B.C. during the Archonship of Pericles on the most
prominent spot of the Acropolis- a rocky hill of 158 meters above sea level-
Parthenon has dominated since then with its extraordinary architectural splendor, not only in the land of Attica and the rest of Greece but also, one may say, the mind and the soul of the entire world!
Going within the shrine of my heart's hidden mind,
In things without, the truth I often do not find;
I dream of greatness. This I expect in others.
As each, in life, have individual druthers...!
The facts of my universe are truly well-known,
I should meditate on my true forms clearly shown;
'Cogito Ergo Sum' - Descartes so proudly said.
Mind and body are not one. Thus, he went ahead...!
I love dear Plato, for his world of ideas.
He gave us Platonic love, highest from above;
No flesh in it; none touches before hearts touch,
Only such love can free me from every grim clutch...!
I do love and respect Aristotle, the great,
Who reduced truths forms to a great idea- bait;
Knowledge comes from within the realism does hold.
To unrealities, often, my conscience is sold...!
Metaphysical epistemological,
Each philosopher, for me, has been logical;
Excellence in beauty and divine perfection,
Is there, to idealism, any exception...?
Socrates accepted the bitter cup offered,
For his idealism he did greatly suffered;
Who he did not ever in his life influence?
Each heart and mind should flow in his great confluence...!!!
19 January 2023
. for public domain
( liberally inspired from Socrates' "second best account" from Plato's dialogue Phaedo )
Up the road a little and beside a pond,
with a view of dew which she grew so fond,
where she shed her Grace after her demise,
and a lifetime of forgiven lies,
near a wooden cross, a throw from an Oak,
a Preacher preached with tears as he spoke,
"We shall miss her kind voice, her soft embrace,
miles of smiles from her pretty face,
Though none of it real, we needed the show
of what Life could be, and not what we know.
To her old age, from the time of her youth
she gave no care for low gestures of truth.
So let us give praise for she who would lie,
who faced Life truly with a heave and a sigh,
but always looked Upwards for the Gift of Grace,
and let that Truth shine from a suffering face."