Michael Swan

Abingdon, Oxfordshire, UK

 

 

Michael Swan lives near Abingdon, in Oxfordshire. He has been writing poetry for many years, since his first mid-life crisis. His poetry has been widely published in magazines, and has won a number of prizes. He has brought out two full collections: When they come for you (Frogmore Press) and The Shapes of Things (Oversteps Books).

 

 Written on 20th April 2020.

 

A philosophical poem about Plato

 

I have sometimes been accused

of writing philosophical poems.

Well, harsher things have been said,

and I suppose

one should listen to critics

now and then.

 

So here's a philosophical poem,

written during a period

of enforced isolation

when almost all relationships

are 'virtual', as they say.

Though you have to ask,

is there any other kind of relationship,

really?

 

But that's for later.

Today's philosophical topic

has arisen because

living as I am in a kind of cave

I find myself thinking about Plato.

(You too, no doubt.)

Plato thought everything we experience

is like shadows on a cave wall,

or something of the sort

(must look it up),

that reflect a transcendent reality

existing outside the cave

inaccessible to us.

 

So, for instance,

if you brought Plato

a plate of truly superb

filet mignon aux truffes,

he would say

yes, right, not bad,

but it's simply a pale reflection

of the ideal Filet Mignon Aux Truffes

which sadly

we cannot ever enjoy,

because etc etc.

 

Or you'd pour him

a glass of Château Margaux 1990

and he'd have a taste

and say OK, right,

well balanced

nice hints of autumn fruits,

but how can this ever compare

with the unimaginable, ideal

Premier Cru

to whose nature this wine

can give us nothing more

than occasional and misleading clues?

 

Or, coming closer to home,

take my chicken soup

named 'Lazarus soup'

by my loving family

because of its miraculous effect

on the sick.

Give Plato a bowl when he had flu

and he'd say –

but need I go on?

 

Plato

The cave is where we are.

Eat the filet

drink the wine

digest the soup.

This is what there is.

Eso es lo que hay

as the Spanish say.

If you don't get

a foreign quote or two  

into a philosophical poem

nobody takes you seriously,

so to add to that

carpe diem

cueillez dès aujourdhui les roses de la vie

and as a bonus from Sweden

allt förändras men är sig ligt:

there is no different place.

 

Plato

face it,

you blew it.