not_a_philosopher
replying on Plato by not_a_philosopher
30 Mar 2005, 3:06 PM
maybe there is no evil only suffering and maybe suffering is based on attachment and an emphasis on wordly pleasures
this could be the best possible world
all evil could be for good
and there may be no God anyway
i love plato and his allegory on the cave never ceases to amaze me and make me wonder about the nature of our world and about the nature of knowledge and his dialouge on socrates trial is amazing -
if perhaps you could remember in the future that the view of a poem is not necessarily the view of the poet it would be appreciated
i dont really like this and it reminds me slightly of the clown in the movie version of it (stephen king)
i like this (though i dont eat pickles).......
It doesn't? I hadn't noticed.
If a man thinks God is responsible for evil, then that man's opinion of God is suicidal, ruinous.
I don't wear bloomers.
By not reading them, you make yourself an able commentor.
The cross is a symbol of redemption, of the Christian faith, of acceptance of Christ's suffering for sinners, of His substitutionary death, of faith shown by the wearer of the cross in Christ, a good luck charm, a mockery, or a gruesome method of execution.
None.
Impressive and inspiring. As always.
<3 Jason
partly inspired by Sylvia Plath's 'The Rival'
only in draft form.
[Enter the Borgias' FOOL.]
LUCREZIA: Well, Fool, what's thy latest?
FOOL: Aristotle's or Zeno's, Lady--'tis neither latest nor last. For, marry, if the cobbler stuck to his last, then were his latest his last in rebus ambulantibus. Argal, I stick at nothing but cobble-stones, which, by the same token, are stuck to the road by men's fingers.
LUCREZIA: How many crows may nest in a grocer's jerkin?
FOOL: A full dozen at cock-crow, and something less under the dog-star, by reason of the dew, which lies heavy on men taken by the scurvy.
LUCREZIA: Methinks the Fool is a fool.
FOOL: And therefore, by auricular deduction, am I own twin to the Lady Lucrezia!
[Sings.]
When pears hang green on the garden wall
With a nid, and a nod, and a niddy-niddy-o
Then prank you, lads and lasses all,
With a yea and a nay and a niddy-o.
But when the thrush flies out o' the frost
With a nid, [etc.]
'Tis time for loons to count the cost,
With a yea [etc.]
I am a bastard too; I love bastards: I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in every thing illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel's most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgment: farewell, bastard.
Methinks I am a prophet new inspired
And thus expiring do foretell of him:
His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
For violent fires soon burn out themselves;
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son,
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,
Like to a tenement or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!
EDGAR: Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill. Halloo, halloo, loo, loo!
FOOL: This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
Do you honestly think I still read your poemes before commenting? Dear God! you haven't grasped this at all have you?All your poemes are pervaded by a desperation to be in some way recognised as a genius - you are therefore deserving only of flippant trumps in response.
A1: Because looks much as I call them such, are not weapons, by which anyone has ever bled.
A2: Not really. Most people I tend to at least need a plan to kill themselves, a will, and that one last bitter spitful note speaking of the tragic irony that is life, blah blah, I hate you mother, see you in heaven(idiots).
<3 Jason
PS-I find it hilarious that the only thing you've ever taken -=Dark_Angel=-,P.I.'s word on is that I'm dim. Talk about openmindedness!!!!!!! LOL !!!!! L!!L!O!L!!!!!