The Pearl and Other Poems

B.R. Mullikin

Ode to Socrates

Do you not know that when we speak
the flowers turn and look away
and th’ felt-green air softens the noise
that trembles lightly in the soil?

But you and I have more to do
with broken sounds beyond the sea
where cold foam waves still spill their blood
upon the ancient teeth of caustic sand.

And how the raven when it sings,
yearns slowly for a better song
than sharpness felt without remorse
or blackness filled with bitter heat:

To be the owl or one to crow –
if either one, which do I choose?
Or should I ever hope to know
far less than once was heard below
the murmur of a ruse?

Anon I say, what of the day –
what of the current whims of life –
where certain hopes are told away
and life itself is made to say
“let live and die in strife.”

But even this remains redeemed
for cool reproach returns and fades
beyond the reach of thicker words:

All has become vain and impartial,
clotted and dry, like wet grain
set upon a cool red flame
or indifferent tears shed in the dark
and understood in passing.