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Daniel Klawitter


The Philosopher's Resentment of Male Lifeguards

Socrates:  Well, my excellent fellow, do you think 
that expertise in swimming is a grand thing?
Callicles: No, by Zeus, I don’t.  
                                          –Plato, Gorgias. 
 
 Perhaps they protect us
from way up there
on their lofty perches.
Well-oiled and eagle-eyed
in red shorts, dark shades
no shirts.
 
Who are they trying to impress?
 
They scan the horizon
in search of danger
or distress-
looking for signs of panic
or maybe an undertow or eddy.
But a drowning 
is as infrequent 
as a shark attack.
 
Still, their whistles 
are always at the ready.
 
Who needs them really?
 
It’s strictly a summer job
for the young and muscular-
who in spite of the windy conditions
have immaculate hair
and a superior cardiovascular system.
 
It’s not a competition.
(Though my physique 
could use some slimming).
I just want to enjoy the beach
and think on all the things
more excellent than swimming.

Doing it Well

Once upon a time
our legs entwined
around each other
like vines.
 
Reaching for something more
beyond the veil--
behind the door of ourselves.
 
Your body laid out a landscape
like dunes on the beach.
 
The gentle slopes and curves
shifting
as I reached for the two
crescent moons of your rising
tasting sand and
wild peach.
 
I remember you above me
like some desperate dark angel--
your fierce black hair hung
in tangles
and me below, transfixed--
my voice strangled
no longer able to resist
the epiphany of our nakedness.
 
And so, we clung to each other
like rain-soaked birds of prey.
 
Our prayers and promises
murmured in a haze
of…dare I say it?
Dionysian bliss.
 
We did many things badly, it’s true--
until those promises went to hell.
But not this.
This we did quite well.

Hell ☊

is living like a cold fish
at the bottom of a well

swimming in dark circles

you cannot tell
if down is up
or up is down.

Hell
is a perpetual
frown
and a never-ending
curse.

Or perhaps
hell
is a midnight colored
hearse
you hope
will never
arrive?

“I’m afraid not”
the literalist replies.

“Hell is merely the smell
of you being burned
alive.” 

Advice To A Reformed Vampire On His First Date In Centuries

...strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin. —Mary Shelly

And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, a power of their own which mere ‘modernity’ cannot kill. —Bram Stoker

The most important lesson
is don’t be overhasty.
To make a good impression
don’t tell her she looks “tasty.”

And what is essential
is that you must resist
showing her your teeth
sharp as pencils
before you have been kissed.

Otherwise she might insist
you take her home on time.

And instead of romance
all you’ll find

is that you got torched
like Frankenstein.



Comments?

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Daniel Klawitter's Profile

Speech Pathology

The most important thing to say
hasn’t been said yet.
  
                                    –Plato, The Republic II

They whisper in your ear
But stop just short of what
You hope to hear
And can’t articulate.
 
Your mouth is mush-
The unsaid phrase 
You anticipate 
Becomes: “hush child, hush.”
 
Why so hard to speak
When the garden of words
Is so lush? Why do your eyes
Leak and your heart beat thus?
 
That fearful fluency 
That others trust
In us is non-transparency,
A dam that won’t bust. 
 
But even those who speak
Extemporaneously on their feet
With such seeming ease 
And compelling candor-
 
Cannot exhaust or appease
The desire for language 
To be more than precise.
It wants instead to meander
 
Beyond the limits of grammar
To the unthought-of thought 
That causes one to stammer
In the fraught-filled speaking. 
 
The best has not yet been said;
How hopeful to have overheard-
And silence is no cause for dread,
For it precedes the spoken Word.

The Most Shameful Thing

"And now we’ve agreed that injustice, and 
corruption of soul as a whole, is the most
shameful thing."
–Socrates, in Plato’s Gorgias.


Forgive me father,
for I have lived
with good intentions.

But we all know
what the road 
to hell is paved with.

Brick by brick 
I’ve built my house
of horrors.

Slowly, over time 
my deposits 
gather relevance

and my closets
contain a graveyard
of skeletons.

Who am I, 
an Augustus of injustice
to ask for absolution?

My sackcloth soul 
is a waste of windswept ashes--
a hermitage of pollution.

As undisputed king 
of the most 
shameful thing,

the distance 
between my words and actions
grew gradually.

An accumulation
of small hypocrisies 
like a Greek tragedy

everyone else 
can see coming
except the hero himself. 

Overflow & Commitment ☊

There is an old proverb, legislator, which we poets
never tire of telling and which all laymen confirm,
to the effect that when a poet takes his seat at
the tripod of the Muse, he cannot control his thoughts. 
He’s like a fountain where the water is allowed
to gush forth unchecked.  –Plato, Laws IV. 
 

The truth is the muse is often fickle.
She likes to be wooed.
Sometimes she wants to be tickled,
On other days, she is rude just to
Start a quarrel that ends in a kiss.
 
You scribble a line, but she
Wants to hear it oral, recited with
A twist of the tongue.  Or she may
Want it sung with full lungs, before
She will bestow a laurel for your crown.
 
If you try to force it, you will only
Make her frown and bring yourself
A world of woe.  Courting her
Requires daily discipline, attention
To form, detail, and apprehensions.
 
Then, the slow hard work accumulates
Into the occasional grace of inspiration:
The poem that seems to spring from
Nowhere, fully-formed and articulate,
An omnipotent storm of exaltation. 
 
And then it flows like a fountain-
And you are drenched in words
You composed but don’t know how
You did it.  But the muse knows
Where water goes—it’s all about
 
Commitment. 

What All Cats Know

Dogs are prose, and prone to please.
Mice are good for eating.
When moonlight splinters through the trees,
We watch humans while they're sleeping.
Disobedience is heroic.
It's wrong to persecute witches.
Hell is a world with no poets---
And heaven a charm of finches.

***

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