Plato’s Sonnet
(A liberated caveman)
When I was tethered
up inside the cave
Where I could see
but shadows on the wall
I craved to see how
Real Things would behave.
I plotted my escape
through study: all
Real Things should
be discoverable in the end
Though first unseen
directly. I knew there
Must be Real Forms
somewhere since shades depend
On Something Real to
cast them. With great care,
I studied every
shadow so I might
Infer what cast the
umbrage. In that way
I burrowed backward
out into the Light.
I now see plainly
Forms have Forms, and they
Have culmination here in that one Form
Of Good that I predicted as the Norm.
Aristotle’s Sonnet
A thing is not worth
less for having use.
The practical thus
merits study, too,
And though we’ve
axioms that we deduce,
Pure theory’s not the
only thing we do.
Our life’s a mix of
logic and of sense
That we must
catalogue if we would know.
I thus plumbed rules
and crafts, found no offense
In usefulness of
anything I’d know.
And now a shade I
see beyond all doubt
That theory’s blind
with practice taken out.
For though I’d
thought I’d navigated all,
I find I’m checked
in heaven. I can’t call
Out to the unmoved
mover, make a plea
Since one unmoved can
never answer me.
Epicurus’s
Prelude, Sonnet, & Postlude
Although the larger
bits have now disbursed,
The finer ones
continue to cohere--
I still have
thought. The mind has not yet burst
Into its dainty
specks. It would appear
I have some minutes
left to bend an ear:
What is the point of
living if not well?
And what is living
well if not to live
By grounded
principles that parallel
The real and
concrete and can therefore give
Sure means of our
improvement? Therefore, we
Work up from what we
sense with judgment. This
Leads us to atoms,
voids and liberty.
We study these in
search of lasting bliss—
Not blasts of joyous
atoms that are shot
In moments. We would have the greater good
Of long untroubled
times. The constant’s what
We seek and not the
fleeting. As we should,
We only ask for
leave to live out life
With reason
minimizing needless strife.
What more to
say? I’ll simply end it there
And settle in--no
one has cause to care.
I am the foe of
anguish everywhere.
Zeno Of Citium’s Double Sonnet
(Greek father of Stoicism)
I, Zeno’s spark,
have molted now at last
Into essential
fire. I’ve wafted past
The lower
regions. Lighter since I’ve cast
Off bone and flesh
that held me to the ground,
My spark by nature
now rose Heaven bound
As pre-determined by
the universe.
There’s nothing
known to man that fire can’t heat
Which proves of course
affinity with all
(Since lacking close
relation fire could not
Effect such heat.) Thus, nothing’s foreign to
Fire, meaning
nothing’s different from it. Hence,
We see that fire’s
the basic element,
And as it’s basic
and as fire must burn,
Life is determined
every way we turn.
Will can’t change
fire into a thing that must
Not burn. Without such freedom of the will,
All is determined
and the rational mind
Therefore concedes
its fate. If mind would be
Not only wise but
virtuous as well,
Such resignation is
consensual.
To question fate
would be unnatural
Since all that must
unfold is natural.
Right therefore
bears its fortune willingly,
And unfleshed mind
is lighter meaning it
Must flicker up to
Heaven as it’s done.
To question that
would be unnatural, wrong,
And foolish. All’s determined. Gods can’t doubt
They naturally lack
the power to snuff me out.
Diogenes Of
Sinope’s Sonnet
(A Greek who loathed
crimes against nature)
There’s nothing more disgusting than a crime
That runs afoul of nature, that inverts
Her just proportions, smears her essence. I’m
An enemy of any who perverts
True nature. Thus, when
Alexander stood
Between the sun and my tub (an eclipse
Of scepters, diadems and fabrics he
Was born without yet wrapped round him no less)
I boldly made him move. I would
not stand
The unnaturalness of flesh all sceptered up
Or the unnatural act of blocking light
That nature cast upon me from the sun.
Thus, I, too, chase men’s “riches,” “honors” though
I chase them off instead of chasing them.
Heraclitus’ Sonnet
We can’t go
back. Each thing is nevermore
At once. Our “ancient” rivers aren’t old. For
Each moment changes
currents, makes them new
So “ancient’ rivers
must always be new.
To be is
change. Thus, extant rivers pour.
We can’t grasp terms
unless we know therefore
Their opposites. We can’t know “good” before
We have some mastery
of “evil,” too.
We can’t go back yet
claim that we explore.
So change is not a
thing wise men deplore.
The tension of its
opposites at war
Pulls concepts taut
that resting would undo.
We stand here
sharper since change overthrew
Flesh for a shade
and would be sharpened more.
Protagoras’s Double Sonnet
(A frank and level-headed Greek)
In life or death, we
struggle with the swirl
Of sense we face, we
try to render it
Controllable in ways
that make it fit.
We face such
struggle lacking absolutes
To bring consensus
when we disagree.
Without good proof
there are no absolutes
Yet having proof requires
proof’s instruments
Which cannot read
themselves. Reading requires
Observers for the
deed and since there are
Uncountable
observers there cannot
Be just one vantage
point that’s absolute.
Such logic holds in
death as well as life.
Since different
shades and gods see differently
No absolute can
measure what they see.
We measure us by how
we measure us,
By how we find we tame
that swirl of sense
Surrounding us. Without an absolute,
No “common sense”
can bring consensus when
We have our
different ends. Of course, we could
By imitating brutes
use force to sway
But that would not
account for moral qualms
(Which are as real
and forceful as the rest
Of our
experience). We therefore need
Some better measures
where we disagree.
We find that in word’s
bloodless rhetoric.
Protagoras is proud
he sheathed his sword.
And drew consensus
with his measured word
That drew men round
him rather than their blood.
© Harold Anthony Lloyd 2016
The current contents of "The Apology Box" can be found here.
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