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 philosophical poems

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Date d'inscription : 17/05/2007

MessageSujet: philosophical poems   Ven 21 Juin - 11:51

Solidarity.
I used to seek answers,
to unsaid questions,
to incessant ponderings,
of the world in which we live in.

I used to fill the world with my voice,
never stopping,
hesitating,
for my greatest fear
was something far bigger than heights;
it was the silence.

The illusion was unmasked,
and at once,
I understood
why those questions were left
unanswered.

And now,
I find myself basking in the silence,
breathing it in,
trapping the words inside;
leaving them to roam within the confines
of my intricate road map.

The silence ensures me,
that underneath the tangle of human complication,
of man-made solidarity,
the world is still a simple
silent
place.
this poem has

Burn Free (The F Word)
Stolen from us, was our freedom
Upon our fathers the burden, saintdom
To reclaim what belongs to Africa.
Upon our mothers the burden, martyrdom
To bear their children's massacre.
The oppressor's heathendom
To steal another's freedom.
But then it came, our freedom
Not as an afterthought, this freedom.
The Ubuntu complex, full of wisdom
Lights an African fire, to forever burn
Those thieves of freedom.
Burn free

It is Freedom day on the twenty-seventh of April for South Africa. Write about what it means to be free to you or write about what it would mean and feel for South Africa. The F-word is Freedom. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11472672-Burn-Free--The-F-Word--by-Akia-Obasi#sthash.PRsYS4di.dpuf

Solidarity Song
Peoples of the world, together
Join to serve the common cause!
So it feeds us all for ever
See to it that it's now yours.

Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!

Black or white or brown or yellow
Leave your old disputes behind.
Once start talking with your fellow
Men, you'll soon be of one mind.

Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!

If we want to make this certain
We'll need you and your support.
It's yourselves you'll be deserting
if you rat your own sort.

Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!

All the gang of those who rule us
Hope our quarrels never stop
Helping them to split and fool us
So they can remain on top.

Forward, without forgetting
Where our strength can be seen now to be!
When starving or when eating
Forward, not forgetting
Our solidarity!

Workers of the world, uniting
Thats the way to lose your chains.
Mighty regiments now are fighting
That no tyranny remains!

Forward, without forgetting
Till the concrete question is hurled
When starving or when eating:
Whose tomorrow is tomorrow?
And whose world is the world?

http://www.inmotionmagazine.com/ac11/haiti_poems.pdf

the World"
by William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
The world is too much with us; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon. 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
 
"On Gazing into a Mirror"
by Li Po
Follow Tao, and nothing is old or new.
Lose it, and the ruins of age return.
Someone smiling back in the mirror,
hair white as the frost-stained glass,
you admit lament is empty, ask how
reflections get so worn and withered.
How speak of peach and plum: timeless
South Mountain blazes in the end?
 

"Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening"
by Robert Frost
Citation :

Whose woods these are I think I know,

His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
 
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
 
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
 
The woods are lonely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
 
"Mexico"
Once each year
After a warm day in April
When darkness comes to the desert
Uninvited but planning to spend the night
Something hits me like a shovel
And I am stunned into believing
Anything is possible

There is no overture to frenzy
I simply look up and see Scorpio
Most dangerous of friends
With the last two stars in his tail
Blinking like lights at a railroad crossing
While in one claw he holds the top
Of a mountain in Mexico

And suddenly I know
Everything I need is waiting for me
South of here in another country
And I have been walking through empty
Rooms and talking to furniture

Then I say to myself
Why would I stay home and listen to Bach
Such precision could have happened
To anyone to an infinite number of monkeys with harpsichords

And next morning I start south
With my last chances flapping their wings
While birds of passage stream over me
In the opposite direction

I never find what I am looking for
And each time I return older
With my ugliness intact
But with the knowledge that if it isn’t there
In the darkness under Scorpio
It isn’t anywhere

Richard Sheldon (1976)


Dernière édition par végétalienne-13 le Sam 13 Déc - 20:11, édité 2 fois
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Masculin Nombre de messages : 19987
Date d'inscription : 17/05/2007

MessageSujet: Re: philosophical poems   Ven 21 Juin - 11:51

http://faculty.frostburg.edu/phil/forum/PhilosphicalPoems.htm
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Masculin Nombre de messages : 19987
Date d'inscription : 17/05/2007

MessageSujet: Re: philosophical poems   Mer 12 Fév - 9:28

PHILOSOPHICAL POEMS


"The World"

by William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon.
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.



"On Gazing into a Mirror"

by Li Po

Follow Tao, and nothing is old or new.
Lose it, and the ruins of age return.

Someone smiling back in the mirror,
hair white as the frost-stained glass,

you admit lament is empty, ask how
reflections get so worn and withered.

How speak of peach and plum: timeless
South Mountain blazes in the end?




"Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening"

by Robert Frost


Whose woods these are I think I know,

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.



My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.



He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.



The woods are lonely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.



"Mexico"

Once each year
After a warm day in April
When darkness comes to the desert
Uninvited but planning to spend the night
Something hits me like a shovel
And I am stunned into believing
Anything is possible

There is no overture to frenzy
I simply look up and see Scorpio
Most dangerous of friends
With the last two stars in his tail
Blinking like lights at a railroad crossing
While in one claw he holds the top
Of a mountain in Mexico

And suddenly I know
Everything I need is waiting for me
South of here in another country
And I have been walking through empty
Rooms and talking to furniture

Then I say to myself
Why would I stay home and listen to Bach
Such precision could have happened
To anyone to an infinite number of monkeys with harpsichords

And next morning I start south
With my last chances flapping their wings
While birds of passage stream over me
In the opposite direction

I never find what I am looking for
And each time I return older
With my ugliness intact
But with the knowledge that if it isn’t there
In the darkness under Scorpio
It isn’t anywhere

Richard Sheldon (1976)

Further Philosophical Poems:

Stephen Dunn: "The Metaphysicians of South Jersey"
Keith Schlegel: Three Jonah Poems
Duane Locke: "Circe"
Frank Ebersole: "Conversation With a Dead Philosopher"

Back to PaperEtc.
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Masculin Nombre de messages : 19987
Date d'inscription : 17/05/2007

MessageSujet: Re: philosophical poems   Mer 12 Fév - 9:31




Philosophical Poems

"Philosophy is something reasoned and heavy; poetry something winged, flashing, inspired...It is the acme of life to understand life. The height of poetry is to speak the language of the gods."
-- George Santayana, Three Philosophical Poets

It would seem that no two creatures could be more dissimilar than the poet and the philosopher. Who else but a philosopher is disturbed by the deepest questions of meaning, and wishes to make a vocation out of solving the knottiest problems of truth and knowledge, morals and logic, existence and death? And who else but a poet could declare herself exempt from the strictures of conceptual thought, free to tamper with words to achieve any musical and playful effect her mood requires? The philosopher must be mindful of method and pay careful attention to assertions, evidence, arguments, ambiguities, facts; his work must withstand the most thoroughgoing scrutiny; the "poet's" work need only be a good performance -- entertaining, soulful, humorous, clever: "a poem should not mean but be," Archibald MacLeish says in Ars Poetica.

All this sounds about right, and yet, some of the most cherished poems happen to have an unmistakably philosophical character: e.g., Lao Tzu's Tao Te Ching, Lucretius' De Rerum Natura, Dante's Commedia, Goethe's Faust, Milton's Paradise Lost. And some of the profoundest sages happen to have condensed their thought in poetical form, from the earliest Buddhists right up to Emerson and Santayana and Khalil Gibran. Any sharp distinction between poet and philosopher must thus be considered problematic.

It might be said that the poet walks onto the philosopher's stage when, abandoning none of her style and form, she turns her descriptive and metaphorical powers to the weightiest themes, be they considerations of the right and the good, speculation about mortality and eternity, or rough sketches of the natural world. Not having a thesis to defend or an argument to advance, she lets her imagination and her ear be her guide; and if her sentiments are irrelevant to the realm of hypotheses and paradigms, they are surely welcome as conjectures in speculative philosophy. What philosopher, for instance, could render the indescribable world of the beyond -- the realm of no-where and no-when -- anymore beautifully than Dante does in the Paradiso?

At times, too, the poetic style is a better conduit to insight than the outpourings of the voluble specialist. Consider two passages here; the first is from Hegel's Phenomenology of Mind:

The formalism which has been deprecated and despised by recent philosophy, and which has arisen once more in philosophy itself, will not disappear from science, even though its inadequacy is known and felt, till the knowledge of absolute reality has become quite clear as to what its own true nature consists in. Having in mind that the general idea of what is to be done, if it precedes the attempts to carry it out, facilitates the comprehension of this process, it is worth while to indicate here some rough idea of it, with the hope at the same time that this will give us the opportunity to set aside certain forms whose habitual presence is a hindrance in the way of speculative knowledge. (trans., J.B. Baillie)

The next lines come from the Tao Te Ching (Lau trans.) :

A man is supple and weak when living, but hard
and stiff when dead. Grass and trees are pliant and fragile
when living, but dried and shrivelled when dead.
Thus the hard and the strong are the comrades of
death; the supple and the weak are the comrades of life.
Therefore a weapon that is strong will not vanquish;
A tree that is strong will suffer the axe.
The strong and big takes the lower position,
The supple and weak takes the higher position.

It is difficult to decipher Hegel when he expresses himself in that way, and the turgidity cannot be blamed on the translator; if anything, the German is harder on the eye and ear. Lao-Tzu is suppler and more limpid by contrast, and in a mere nine lines is able to illustrate the meaning of paradox quite well. The Hegel passage leaves the reader agitated in the attempt to figure it out; the poetic passage plays on the imagination and encourages a second and third thought.

The poems below address important aspects of life in an engaging way. What would be lost, in insight and meaning, by translating them into average, everyday prose, or into the "reasoned and heavy" utterings of a philosopher like Hegel?

I. Sir Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia

II. William Wordsworth, "The World Is Too Much With Us"

III. Robert Browning, "Summum Bonum"

IV. Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Brahma"

V. William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

VI. Thomas Hardy, "The Oxen"

VII. Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "Solitude"

VIII. George Santayana, "O World. . ."

IX. T.S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton"


Two Poems About Philosophy:
X. John Ciardi, "Philosophical Poem"

XI. Edna St Vincent Millay, "The Philosopher"



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MessageSujet: Re: philosophical poems   Aujourd'hui à 13:22

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