.

Ipse Dixit

I say Cogito ergo sum
To the animal here in the room.
So how do I know I exist?
Well, here’s a provisional list:

I doubt, and I fear, and I bleed;
I attend to a friend who’s in need.
The philosophers think they’re so smart,
But the horse goes in front of Descartes.

.

.

The Sovereign State

What sort of discipline could keep a heart
From leaning toward its natural aptitude
For indiscreet entanglements?  What art
Has ever been devised that might preclude
The possibility of roguish states
Where every fancied trespass is allowed
And boundaries are defined by open gates
Abetting flight as faith is disavowed?

The answer is: such nostrums don’t exist.
But even if they did, they’d be unable
To sell a man the motive to resist
Temptation.  Cures for lust are utter fable,

And women too are disinclined to pause
When flowing with the tide of inborn laws.

.

.

Words for a Fellow Traveler

I’ve sometimes wondered why the natural world
Is not the perfect place for me to be,
For far too often, as my life unfurled,
Untrammeled joy turned into misery.

Perhaps I should seek out another realm
Where scrapes are disinfected by pure sunlight,
Where disappointments never overwhelm
And disagreements don’t become a gunfight.

Though conflict thrives when opposites are polar,
I’m sure that there must be a better way;
In such events, consider going solar
By letting in the healing light of day.

In this old world, or maybe somewhere better,
The options that we choose create our tale;
Let darkness not become our iron fetter—
Let’s draw the card that gets us out of jail.

Between the good and bad there’s middle ground,
A land where we can take things as they come.
When I get there, I hope that you’re around
To help retrace the place we started from.

.

.

Malique

To see him now, decked out in plundered silk,
Gold earrings and a combed mustachio—
Who’d guess that he’d been reared on harlot’s milk,
Dried fig, St. John’s bread and pistachio?

From Barbary he hailed (though some will say
It was Sardinia) where, still a youth
Of twelve, Malique one night dared stow away
Aboard a brigantine that brooked no ruth.

Just three days out, the burly bosun swore,
“I had your mum, and I’ll have you,” then drew
Him close.  Malique unhinged that blackamoor
With cuts that spattered blood on all the crew.

At eighteen years and seven days, Malique
Assumed the captaincy when Shadrach died
From wounds received while running down a Greek
Two-master.  “Take no prisoners!” he cried.

The rules of pillage thence abided by
Were known for their uncommon gallantry:
“Let men we capture choose how they would die;
No woman shall be harmed, unless by me,”

For many years he had his way, a threat
To any ship that sailed the main, though for
A fact he counted as his one regret
The Grecian princess whom his hearties tore.

Malique was just a day past twenty-five
When Spanish ships horizoned at the stroke
Of dawn.  “They’ll never take my bones alive,”
The last and truest words he ever spoke.

To see him now, decked out in plundered silk,
Gold earrings and a combed mustachio—
We knew that he’d been reared on harlot’s milk,
Dried figs, St John’s bread and pistachio.

.

.

C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden.  Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India.  His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.

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26 Responses

  1. David Paul Behrens

    Outstanding poetry, as might well be expected.

    When I was in high school there was a fourteen old fellow who supposedly was some kind of genius who was going to skip high school and go straight to college, but was required to take one course in World History on a high school level. One day he posed a question to the class, asking if anyone could prove they exist. No one said anything until I finally spoke up and told him to meet me in the parking lot after school and I would prove to him that I exist.

    Reply
  2. Roy Eugene Peterson

    In “Ipse Dixit,” I loved the ending line, “But the horse goes in front of Descartes.” You give us a lot to contemplate with your depth in the next two poems. I had to look up Malique (also spelled Malik) who it turns out was a pirate of Arabian origin and wondered how you had ever come across his story. All the poems flowed from line to line and captivated my attention.

    Reply
    • C.B. Anderson

      I’d never heard of the historical Malik, Roy. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. I liked the name because it begins with “Mal-.”

      Reply
  3. David Whippman

    “Malique” was engrossing – there’s a perennial fascination about pirates. It reminded me somewhat of the accounts of the pirate captain Bartholomew Roberts, who was reputedly a devout Christian and teetotaller as well as a ruthless plunderer. If the historical Malik wasn’t like your eponymous hero, he ought to have been!

    Reply
    • C.B. Anderson

      When I was a kid, David, my friends and I would often play at being pirates. We once buried a treasure chest full of costume jewelry and the gold tinfoil wrappers from chocolate coins.

      Reply
  4. Joseph S. Salemi

    Before I make any detailed comments, let me say this: If the SCP were a major naval engagement, Kip Anderson has blown all of us out of the water with a shattering full broadside.

    These are four slamming cannon balls of poetry. “Ipse Dixit” is a perfectly delightful hors d’oeuvre, the last line of which smacks you in the face. As a sharp witticism it is as good as anything in the English literary canon.

    As for “The Sovereign State,” the first two quatrains contain only two sentences, and every single line of those quatrains is enjambed perfectly. We don’t fully see the subject of the poem until the volta comes, and even then we must wait for line 12 to understand that “the sovereign state” is lust! And the closing couplet makes sure we understand that both sexes are subject to the temptations of this dangerous tendency. So a sonnet that began by suggesting that the poet was talking about politics (“entanglements,” “roguish states,” “trespass,” “boundaries”) turns out to be a sonnet about one of the seven deadly sins.

    “Words for a Fellow Traveler” presents us with five perfect ABAB quatrains of what might be read as a small dramatic monologue dealing with disappointment and unbroken hope. When we get to the end, who is being addressed? Is it the reader? Is it a beloved spouse? Is it a good friend? It hardly matters, because we are all fellow travelers in a world of pain, and we all fantasize a better one that includes those we love.

    “Malique” is the knockout punch. The first quatrain alone, in both diction and imagery — WOW! It is rare to find a poem with this kind of slam-dunk, powerhouse beginning. All the following quatrains do something else at least to me as a reader: they are UPSETTING and SHOCKING. They paint a savage piratical world of murder and rapine and pillage that made me go pour myself some bourbon. Boy, they made me shudder!

    And then, the final repetition of that stunning first quatrain, showing the pirate laid out in death in all his stolen finery, and that unforgettable imagery of harlot’s milk, dried figs, St. John’s bread, and pistachio — this is pure fictive mimesis at its stellar best.

    Let me say it again in spades: K.A.N.D.

    Reply
  5. C.B. Anderson

    I’m blushing, Joseph. Unless I misremember, Descartes thought that animals were automata, whether horses, elephants or whatever, and I’m pretty sure that none of them ever question their existence. I hope the bourbon did the trick.

    As an aside, St. John’s bread, or carob, was what John the Baptist is reported to have eaten while living alone in the desert. Carob is the seedpod of a tree closely related to the locust tree, which has given some people the impression that he ate locusts, i.e. grasshoppers.

    Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      Kip, I’ve tried to explain that the business about “locusts” in the Bible refers to the seed pod of the carob tree, and not actual insects, and that St. John’s diet was merely a very plain one of these seed pods and wild honey.

      It was of no avail with some religionists. They screamed that I was tinkering with the sacred scriptures, and that St. John definitely lived on bugs. I guess the New World Order will promote St. John as its patron, since it seems that many people believe he anticipated their policy of forcing all of us to live on insects.

      Reply
      • C.B. Anderson

        St. John doesn’t live here. I just finished cooking a bison tongue, and I found it good. I’m all out of wild honey.

  6. Julian D. Woodruff

    Haven’t kids been flunking English courses for ages for turning in homework with key lines better than Cogito ergo sum? Glad you gave Ren that send-up, CB. Thanks for the other 3, too–all great.

    Reply
  7. Brian A. Yapko

    C.B., these are four poetic jewels of intriguing thought and rollicking story-telling.

    Ipse Dixit is very short but very meaningful. Since you’re referring to the animal in the room, I’m envisioning a cat before whom you are thinking out loud. Descartes said “I think” but you are placing action verbs ahead of mere contemplation and you are finally placing animal existence in front of philosophy. The pun is a fun one, but there is more to it than the pun. It’s an entire paradigm of how we process the meaning of existence. Is it external or internal? I note that animals never question their own existence. And am I reading more into this short poem that you intended?

    Sovereign State is full of genius-level misdirection which initially leads us to politics, then to the state of lust. What’s interesting here is the way the two intertwine metaphorically. I’m reminded of “Evita” where the lead political characters are seen to direct the future of Argentina not from an office or conference room but from their bedroom.

    Words for a Fellow Traveler are wise indeed and contemplates the virtues of choosing the middle path “between the good and bad” rather than the various extremes where “untrammeled joy turned into misery.”

    But my favorite of the quartet is Malique which is not just incredibly well-written – it’s a blast to read and a bigger blast to read a second time. It’s a great story, told with details both physical and linguistic which give it verisimilitude. It is now on my wish-list to hear this set to the tune of an old sea shanty and performed as a raucous, rollicking pirate song. Your first and last stanzas even provide the chorus.

    Reply
    • C.B. Anderson

      Well, Brian, “Ipse Dixit” might be even a bit more complicated than you let on, so reading into it is nothing more than simply reading it. The animal in the room is the horse that shows up at the end — the horse (beast-nature) is the elephant in the room. I’m glad you liked the others too.

      Reply
  8. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    C.B., these poems spill with lush language. They have bright notes of sagacity and a mellow hint of the heavenly. This is the sort of poetry that demands to be sipped slowly and savored before the buzz kicks in… and what a buzz! My favorite is “Words for a Fellow Traveler” – no particular reason, other than it may say more about me than it does about the poetry. They are all intoxicating treats to read.

    Reply
    • C.B. Anderson

      Again, Susan, have you tried the Glenmorangie yet? If I can do it, I will try to serve up some Highland Park, Oban, Dalwhinnie, Clynelish, Mortlach or Linkwood one of these days. Here’s to buzz.

      Reply
      • Susan Jarvis Bryant

        C.B., yes. I have tried Glenmorangie and many other exquisite Highland single malts… my brother visits the distilleries and has a fine collection. Fine poetry provides me with my buzz. Since joining the SCP, I’ve given up whisky… these days, a rare bruising stanza may drive me to a swig of robust bourbon.

  9. Christina Lesinski

    All of these poems are outstanding and uniquely enjoyable to read. The sound and rhythm of the poems are just my style and struck me ever so effortlessly. Your way with words is captivating. “Ipse Dixit” is so clever, and I have a particular appreciation for the Latin inclusion, as well as the allusion to Descartes. I think it worth mentioning to note those significant differences between us and animals, in this world that seldom seems to know the difference.

    In “Words for a Fellow Traveler” I was surprised by the direction it quickly took, as it was more alluding to travelers of life than world travelers. But then again, I liked how it suggested finding an alternate world to travel, so to speak. There was so much food for thought there, but I especially liked the references of light versus dark notions: how if only “Scrapes were disinfected by pure sunlight” and how we should “consider going solar” by allowing the sun to heal us, the light to overcome us with its splendor. Very nice, and again, clever. I am sure we are all in equal favor of a world where our joys are not constantly destroyed by bitterness and sadness.

    I was again surprised when I read the comments and how “Malique” was not based on a real pirate, as a pirate is what I pictured and it is a perfect name for a pirate really. Love the creativity of this tale and the vivid imagery you convey.

    Reply
    • C.B. Anderson

      You, Christina, in your comment, have given me a lot of food for thought. I think the biggest difference between humans and animals is that we can say “I” and know exactly what we mean by it. It’s called having an ego, being self-conscious. I’m glad you liked the sound and rhythm — it’s become a habit, one of my few good ones.

      Reply
  10. Warren Bonham

    If all philosophers did was waste their own time, I wouldn’t care but their supposed deep thoughts on useless topics have probably done more harm than good over time. Here’s a quick summation of what I took away from Ipse Dixit.
     
    Philosophy courses
    put carts before horses.
    But with “egg or chicken”,
    whose pulse wouldn’t quicken?

    Reply
    • C.B. Anderson

      I am curious, Warren, about which topics that philosophers write about you find useless. Consider what the word “philosophy” literally means. No strictly practical applications are necessary.

      Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      Warren, there are some absolutely godawful idiocies promoted by philosophers: German Idealism, Kantianism, Hegelianism, Utilitarianism, and all the radical-revolutionary dreck that has flowed out of them like ordure from a clogged sewer.

      But still, some philosophers have been profoundly intelligent commentators on existence and its meaning — Aristotle, for example.

      Here’s a small bit of verse to attach to yours:

      Some of the notions of Plato
      Stink like a rotten tomato.
      But there’s no worse drool
      Than the Kantian school:
      All bratwurst and kraut and potato.

      Reply
      • Warren Bonham

        I definitely am of a more practical bent and my limited college exposure to the topic aligned with what was outlined above (the “clogged sewer” variety) but I am very open to the possibility that I judged too quickly and harshly (as happens often). I like the Plato/tomato/potato limerick as well.

  11. Adam Sedia

    These are all top-notch, and I am in awe at your ability to be so prolific.

    My favorite of the collection is “Malique,” above all for being a nice narrative poem, which we don’t see too often here (or anywhere else) anymore. It’s a great length for a narrative poem, too — not too long and easy to read in a brief sitting.

    Your repartee to Descartes is clever – and common-sense — as is your sonnet. As always, I enjoyed reading them all.

    Reply

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