Socrates — Let My Teacher Go From Hell

Versions: Midwest Review / Arion / Hopkins Review

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i.

sterile old man
pregnant with thirst
nursemaid of virtuous longing

lugubrious beggar,
mendicant bum of truth

cryptic codger
obsessed with riddles,

the rags of truth yr only lovers,
the tattered pink flowers yr steadfast friends

bagman muttering heaven—yr statuettes stuffed
with thoughts—

ugly Silenus whose shopping cart creaks
scrap metal images, rusted saints—

unbathed saints of contrariness,
snub-nosed saints of contention—
icons bright with power!

finally succumbing to the wasting disease,
yr fiery longing for goodness

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ii.

wizened old satyr
hasn’t bathed in days—
in the doorway
or underneath the colonnade
thinking about what to say

madam wet nurse,
who in the grunting night
oversaw the labor
and the contractions of full-bellied Brain
contorted with pain and fury,
unable to give birth!

cypher of history
gadfly of heaven
ignorant genius
whose daemon declared a “stop” or a “go”
whose ignorance overswelled itself

unbathed but lovely beauty
bright-faced wisdom shone

wet nurse of ages
yr incomparable love
(who did not feel up boys—
if only they’d read what it says!)

you who loved only wisdom,
and the Good,
who ached for a vision of Beauty—

who drank the poison in one fell draught,
and died in the honest hope,

smiling hemlock lips,
that virtue and truth
could lead to You.

eloquent bumbler,
babbler of truth
babbler, betrayer of lies—

my dearest First Teacher—my Socrates, friend!—
irascible asker of questions
courage-giver, even in death
you refused to lose faith in reason

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iii.

dark with age,
and mud,
and a mission—

undying lust for logoi
tempered with doubt!
the small human mind
you displayed without shame on yr sleeve

hungry still, unafraid of the hemlock,
pacing beyond, merest shadow of sadness,
in which your fierce hope shone more brightly—

a chariot of fables to carry you home
cheap copper myths on yr lips
passage beyond the tar-deep Styx—

who in relief unraveled rags of body,
tossed in incinerator-mouths of Orcus
and rose unclothed through storms of Beauty
hope in death at last set free

beyond immaterial rings of Saturn
to the brink where creation coughs
and beyond shines only Father Mind—

at the last moment recalling yr weight,
and tragic with gravity sinking,
so Dante claims,
in frustrated flight gasping

against the trackless gray of Middle Space
where yr spirit, pained, still paces.

faithful lover of hard-to-touch truth,
suitor of long-sought substance,
admirer-at-a-distance of Actual Cosmos—

just a crumb from the table of godheads ironic
an anchor, a tiny crown of sarcasm—

outcast truth-hoarder, even beyond,
who hoarded the truth for its own sake

Heaven-Ithaca Odysseus,
at sea for the rest of time

confounded, sad-eyes staring,
alone with yrself and yr questions

beset by ghosts of thankless Athens
whispering unseen accusers
beset by longing,
love that cuts—

the spiny desire consumed you,
a Trojan Horse of traitorous gifts

and on mad-fervent quest
even in death you searched out answers

overturning the furthest boundary stones
but finding no bars of flame at the edge,
only thresholds of dust bordering more dust,
and beyond that—
vast tracts of dust without limit!

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iv.

Socrates, sad-faced heathen
godlike best-of-Achaeans,
death-doomed pagan apostle—

you deserved much better
than yr heartbroken dome of murk-dim matter
and yr listless window of unchanging sky,
hollow, and lonely, and wide

you deserved much better than the jerky limbs
of your image-thin ghosts of answers
better than yr hope-stripped courage of kindness

you who offered yr human power—
imperfect—yes! but total, entire

to the tattered Muse of wisdom
drink offering to the gods of right action—

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v.

Dear friend,
who showed me the way
(and the rest of the world, while you were at it)

may some small spark of yr inert
but radiant human virtue
return to you.

may some bright hope give birth.

my one true philosopher,
precious wordfather born on earth—

in me—
in me i’ll beg my unseen father—
in me, you’ll find yr way home.

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Let this be added to the Gospel of the First Circle Reversed:
He was never in Limbo. He was the gate.