Rises at six (a priori)
Sinks at seven (a posteriori)
Alarm clocks set to time zones
Where his favourite philosophers
Lived, worked, died.
Stares at the sign attached
To the bedside mirror
THERE IS NOTHING
THAT NOTHING CANNOT FIX
Smiles at his absent lovers, stuck
In the creases beside his eyes
Cleans teeth with an electric toothbrush
Whilst spinning past revolutions
In his head, pondering which brush
Hegel or Sartre would have preferred.
Flicks a coin to determine the relative
Merits of marmalade and honey
Smears his face with a textbook smile
Trots downstairs to switch on self
Phone, computer, kettle
With syllogistic slickness.
Faces mirror, his cat's uncertainty, cheap-wine-drinker's-droop
Phenomenological fears of mis-spelling
Phenomenology. Answers calls but not questions
Questions his neighbour's anagram of a wife
Doorbell pings to sting his wits
Jehovah's Witnesses smarten his doorstep with seismic grins
He announces Schopenhauer and Nietzsche as his daily sins
Pounces on a spider, disproves ontological doubts
Slams the door on hate before the deluge of bills
And interlocking of empirical wills
Rips up final demands with hasty laugh: nothing can ever be final
Passes time
By denying it.
Meets a student to greet
Her admiration for philosophers, philosophy and his work
Agrees to disagree with her in exchange for a wobbly smirk
By four he is home and ready to wink
Into marking, and mixing a fictitious drink
By seven he ponders why shelves sag in several places
By ten he is ready to read more of philosophy's traces
At midnight he thinks it dandy to think
About the next day's meetings, whether his books
Are beginning to stink.
Dream ghosts question if life's a hoax or dream
Whilst Wittgenstein's plea for silence
When in doubt, prompts an awakening
To apply
Anti-ageing cream.
Richard G Berg
October 2024
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem