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    Nikos Tselepides New Member

    Member Since:
    Dec 6, 2006
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    Three days hiding from the sun
    the logs burn in the fire
    snow melts high up
    water flows to the valleys.
    Sober, precious old books--
    turn the pages and read. Make notes
    I will never use.
    Deer sniff and bear grunt.
    Fresh blood on the white snow
    what did the mountain wolf kill?
    No one, not even a philosopher can tell you.
    Neither can a poet.
    The myth moves in the air
    and then disappears, taking all gods with it.
    Do the chores, lock up
    and go to bed.
    Philosophy and poetry, they said, sometimes
    they mingle and sometimes they do not--
    two monsters making miracles
    and making failures also, with some
    noticeable thuds and moans.

    Three days far from the sun
    the logs burn in the fire. And far
    from both disciplines, thank God.


    walks in, tall

    and jumps into bed
    with me

    and philosophy mingle
    in a stuggle
    under the blankets
    the fire crackles
    sparks slight and nice

    the heartbeats rise
    you cannot make out
    what these two
    are mumbling

    movement subsides
    and silence comes

    the two polarities
    have managed to unite

    they will go each
    their own way


    Come in
    said the poet

    to the philosopher.
    It is too hot in your place

    I’d rather stay out
    in the cool air

    said the philosopher.
    As you like
    replied the poet.

    They are still
    at a distance
    from each other

    Two thousand years
    since this incident
    took place

    Nikos Tselepides
    30th Oct. 2006, Athens, Greece.

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