Stephen Fuller *** Poetry, Essays

Socrates Calls, a poem

I imagine, sometimes, not all the time, but often enough
For you to think me weird, which,
In all likelihood, you did before
This admission
That Socrates talks to me
His cup full of hemlock.
I, too, look at him askance!

What, old man, do you want with me?
He begins a series of questions.
Inevitably, stuck
in the corner of my life,
I have to say:

Yes, such a profound utterance has never before
Vibrated from a man at my age
At last,
Finds himself opening books
On the floor,
On the desk,
On the table beside the bed,
On every flat surface
With other tombs.

His tomb called.

Louder than Socrates.

Combined they chorus
Like a mocking Aristophanes
And as profound:

“open me at last
bite but one word
and savor its chewed idea
like candy an adult eats
as childhood impulsions
saturate lists of failures
drowned in sweetness”

I appreciate
this point
where books wrap leafs
around me leaf by leaf
and warm my colding body

12 Responses to “Socrates Calls, a poem”

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