Philosophers at the Cafe

I had to look in my old philosophy book to remember half the things I needed for this poem.

If you walk through the doors,

And if your thing is noticing table numbers,

You will see they are not numbers

At all,

But philosophers.

If you sit at Table Rousseau,

All your food will be organic.

Your napkin will be imprinted with

Quotes from ‘The Social Contract’

And your drink today will be

But a glass of water.

If you sit at Table Plato,

Your menu will be brought over,

But will not be accompanied with food.

For life is but ‘a dance of shadows’

And what is the point of eating

When one’s life should not be about

Worldly pleasures?

If you sit at Table Nietzsche,

You will be served only with a

Long black,

From which you may stare into the

Empty blackness that does

Mirror the world.

If you sit at Table Freud,

You will be served a

Very suspicious looking

Breadstick.

If you sit at Table Marx,

You will only be served as much coffee

As the person on the table next to you.

Unless you are a capitalist,

In which case

You will be thrown out.

If you sit on Table Rorty

(as he is a known existentialist),

You will be expected to

Upend your table and turn to your

Neighbour,

Expecting him to do the same.

If you sit at Table Aristotle,

You will be expected to order

By yourself.

But if you stay on,

Although your food was

Organic,

Imaginary or

Suspicious,

You will meet a very interesting persona.

He hardly ever strays from the kitchens,

Where he makes every order

From scratch.

But when he does venture out,

You will find him

Cleanly shaven with

Very white teeth.

And he will introduce himself

As the

God of the Philosophers.

By the way, I’m not religious.

The Blue Wood

The blue wood.

It is a place where

Nobody laughs

(Trees cannot laugh)

And gossip does not exist.

The cool air is not

Gunked with fumes,

It is

Breathable.

Only the metronome sound

Of a woodpecker and the

Slow, sighing swish

Of the trees in the wind

Can be heard.

 

In this wood,

The trees are not green.

Night has leaked them

Of colour

Like humanity has

Leaked them of life.

This blue wood

Is dead.

Dead, but beautiful as well.  I suppose things can be that way.

The Schoolgirl Philosopher

A smile is a rarity

On her plain face.

Her books clutched to her chest,

Like a small child.

Her diary is full of

Poetry.

Her pencilcase,

Scrunched pieces of paper –

The remnants of thought.

 

Do not invite her to celebrations

For she will sit in the corner

And take notes.

 

In the classroom,

She stays mute and

In the corridor,

While others play,

She learns.

 

And when, from this place of learning,

We graduate,

She will carry her thoughts

Like a backpack.

The more she trudges along

The dusty road of life,

The heavier it will become.

This is not based upon anyone I know.  Including myself.