Atoms and Void There is no body without void – Epicurus I You’d have thought it endless, Lucretius— The laminar descent of atoms Falling through a void serene and mute, Each atom unhurried, alone, Descending at a constant pace, Unmoved by force, untouched by will, No dawn to break their quiet fall, No god to stir the silent dark. But then—a swerve, a subtle bend, Two atoms veer, incline, and meet, A fragile sign of nascent will, A fracture within fate’s per

Pond Life If water is the primal origin of all things (as the ancient Greek sage Thales of Miletus supposed), then considering how hard it is to wade through, it must also be oil and pitch, mercury and salt, sulphur too, with differing degrees of power and viscosity, all stirred up and blended into a huge pool of liquid substance, thick enough to get yourself stuck in. But don’t call on the old gods and nymphs of Thales’ day to be your life guards. They won’t jump in and save

Artful Agaze, the artist is beset by eros Of no vulgar kind. Crossing the chorismos, He takes his tools, kneads and forms And sculpts. Substance yields to some thing new. But partially obscured by dark spots, The result is more product Than idea.

Circling We move in circles around each other, encircled and encompassing, each turn driven in part by our own will to move and be moved, driven too by that First Cause, the Prime Mover, whose very existence guarantees the endless movement of time and the unceasing, ever-expanding production and reproduction of man’s vain desire to touch and be touched. But that First Cause does not turn, cannot turn; it thinks Itself alone and is unmoved, or at best does not know of the stri

Vir Heroicus Sublimis (1950-51) by Barnett Newman 'It Is a Place, Makom, Where Each Man May Be Called up': Being and Time in Barnett Newman's Art 'Even if you don’t know Newman’s place in art history, walking into a space full of his paintings can inspire contemplation. They give you nothing and everything to look at, these huge canvases whose only subject is themselves, enveloping you in the moment, confronting you with seemingly pure fields of color and contrast.’ (Molly Gl

Simulation (Through the Looking Glass) “Observe this fagged-out world, this patch of chemical scum, where things – people, cats, tables, nouns, quarks – are in frozen flight from something we call ti esti. A laser of light on a lens or a little globe of acid in the petri dish should suffice – then we can write our final report. Lots of data but I don’t expect to be enlightened.”

Apeiron beginning; ur-reality: eternal, infinite, boundless, indefinite; yielding every thing through the actions of opposites: hot-cold, wet-dry, soul-body, one-many; and in time will decohere & return to the infinite beginning: genesis and decay, ceaseless becoming

In Praise of the Apollonian In Greek mythology, Apollo and Dionysus are both sons of Zeus. Apollo is the god of reason, light and order, while Dionysus is the god of wine, intoxication and ritual madness. Many philosophers and writers have invoked the Apollonian and Dionysian. Nietzsche, of course, employed the concept in The Birth of Tragedy. In the literary and philosophical sense, the Apollonian represents individuality and celebrates creativity through reason and logic.

An Idle King I am an idle king, a hollow king With the wind and sea at my back, Whose shade walks among the dread bones of Hades. My ghostly beard is long, long. Once in time I left my island home With a glut of fishermen, meat and libations; But bad fortune found us Amidst the seas And we were not ready. I do not exist, oh moon. I do not exist, oh little stars. And yet I have dreams In which I sing with a voice, But even that is small, dry and pale. I wait for the gods to co

Titan Zero The weight of the earth is loss: The titans have vanished from the page and Krónos our captain (carrioned by his own creations) lies heavy, buried beneath the playwright's stage, (hammer and reaping-hook too). Father and son to time’s gravitational pull (but never victor), it will take more than a god to undo the things he’s killed, and more than a star to see flesh returned to the world.

Penelope Penelope weaves a boat of sweet songs while beneath her bibulous boozers scratch beer, play dice. “Declare his bones and suck mine,” they joke (not joking at all). Time turns to dreams and honey-thick shadows hush the spot where black snow falls in streams of light upon the head of the stranger standing in the archway.

Sea Song My thoughts turn to the sea: there the convolutions of time deliquesce into wavelike ease, closer to the rhythms of myself. It is where the gannet, the curlew are my fondest companions. Look: a black sea bird perhaps a Phalacrocorax carbo in a seashell of eyes on a coast of floating souls. Her dark echoes fade, fade into the furious light. O my Calypso, I am stuck from view, concealed by a magic sea. The sea moves in ancient gestures calling on the land to give

Sophia among the Philosophers (excerpt from Discourse in the Garden) [Disguised.] Yes, it is I. In I come, out I go. Yes, I am it. It writes. I will write a supplication. Here. Now. As follows. And in that hall there was a cruel prison (which men don’t call fayre), a place of wasted time. [SOPHIA stops.] No, wait... Life is not growing like a tree and love is not to be had. God, our help, consider us when we pass. God, whose shrine stands in that hall, receive these

Discourse in the Garden: A Short Drama An olive grove. Night. The sound of approaching footsteps. SOCRATES: ‘Swounds! A dark day for strong flowers and cool breezes. Can you deny it? PLATO: Are you spreching to me, sir? SOCRATES: I am, almost certainly. [Sits beside PLATO.] Call me I am. PLATO: Ha! Welcome. Call me anything you like. I’ll deny it later. SOCRATES: Ho! I’ve only lived the one life. Where next? Should I go on? PLATO: Always going on. Even when you’re half dead.