3 May 2003

The dreams of philosophy, when we are young,

Are the lethal target of the teachers of philosophy,

They must be killed, and the hard reality of this

Relentless discipline, must break the student’s heart,

For philosophy today, is quite sure that,

The child is no longer father to the man,

For philosophy today,

The soul has no need to build its ship of death,

It is meaningless, the philosophers say today,

To live in eternity’s sunrise,

All you need to know, is the structure of argument,

Not that beauty is truth, truth beauty,

Philosophy to me was once life, and hope, and dream,

But then came my education, Ph.D, and danger of death,

I have had to spend my life unlearning,

I have had to live my life relearning,

The ear attends to this call from the depths,

Of our humanity, of the deepest springs of hope, and life,

Philosophy is not this thin-faced logic,

Wrapping its cerebral tentacles around the mask of death,

Philosophy is not this hard-nosed factuality,

Sacrificing the vision and wonder of the flowers in the field,

Philosophy is not this logos-driven set of abstractions,

Thrown over the buzzing, blooming confusion of our lives,

And smothering the deep purple of the lilacs,

And the ecstatic whiteness of the bridal wreath in bloom.

Philosophy without the thinking-feeling-willing self,

Is the mask of death, the empty husk of peer-reviewed publications,

Philosophy without the visionary, dreaming self,

Is a fetter on the revolutionary upsurge of wild existence,

Philosophy without the deeply wondering self,

Crushes the absolute mystery at the heart of being,

Philosophy is this longing in our hearts,

That must spring forth in all we do,

For our hearts and minds reflect the heart of being,

And the deepest springs of inspiration,

The wisdom and compassion,

The sorrow, and the ecstasy,

Philosophy is our deepest, purest life,

And the thought that often lies too deep for words.

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